The Diaries of a Queen
by EyesOfATragedy
Summary: The life of Alexia Ashford: her childhood, insane father, and the discovery of the T-Veronica virus.
1. The Beginning Of The End

December 27, 1998  
  
After fifteen long years of impassive sleep, my research has successfully blossomed as I knew it would. I sit here, at this wooden desk, in this quiet mansion replica, thoughts swirling in my head disguised as tiny smoke- like voices. Each of the aristocratic whispers explains, in minute detail, the power that I have obtained through the T-Veronica virus, and their claws of assurance hold fast to my mind. I hear one now, even as I pen this entry, applauding my actions in dealing with the two cretins responsible for the death of my dear brother, Alfred. He loved me dearly.  
  
However, even in my ecstatic state, I cannot repress this foreboding feeling in the pit of my stomach. I attempt to explain it away as grief for my lost brother, but in my mind, I know his passing is not the cause of my uneasiness. Running the risk of sounding horribly callous, his life was inconsequential. As fate would have it, he was the worker ant, the soldier and guardian, and his accomplishments were but shadows to mine. He shared my physical characteristics and his sadism paralleled and quite possibly surpassed my own; however, he could never match my intellect. It was an unfortunate situation for him, especially as a child, always aware that he could not come close to my greatness. Such a shame, really - dying to protect his Queen. He will be missed.  
  
No, the ominous premonitions refer to something else. Perhaps they are feelings from my past, stirred from seeing the face of Albert Wesker once again. Although I've only seen the gentleman through newspaper print and cameras hidden about the complex, I did hear a fair share about him before I entered my cryogenic state. His colleague, William Birkin, carried a personal vendetta against me, and (from the explanations given to me by my confidants at Umbrella, Inc.) Drs. Birkin and Wesker were annoyed that a girl of my age and social status could exceed their measly research. Of course, I could hardly blame Birkin for his jealous behavior. He was, after all, the golden child of Umbrella Pharmaceuticals, quite possibly one of the most influential and top-paid individuals at the aforementioned company; but when I, a ten year old University graduate and heiress to the respected Ashford name, was propositioned by Umbrella, I was the new prodigy. All of Birkin's inferiors praised me and my accomplishments as opposed to his quickly-stagnating research, and in the end, it drove him to his death.  
  
Moments ago, I accessed the Umbrella database and learned that Dr. Birkin did have one success before he went mad: the G-Virus. Interesting concept, I'll give him credit for such, but the virus was filth to be spread to the commoners. The T-Veronica virus exceeds all others for one simple reason: it was borne of royalty. When intermingled with the gene extracted from the Queen Ant, the T-Virus becomes something of a god in its own right, and with proper time for cellular adjustment and immunity, the carrier's mind becomes stronger than any rifle, any bomb, any thing.  
  
I am sorry, dear Birkin, but you were outshone once again.  
  
Perhaps that is why Dr. Wesker is searching for me. Perhaps he seeks revenge for the part I played in the death of his friend, however miniscule it might have been. Mixing that theory with the mass amount of prestige and monies that he will acquire by capturing his one-time nemesis, it would seem to me that he would need little goading to take on the project. With that in mind, I will have to be cautious when he arrives. It is not that I fear him, as I could squash him like an ant, but it is what I read in the Umbrella database that disturbs me the most.  
  
Albert Wesker should be dead.  
  
However, my own eyes tell me that this is not the case. He has become something more than human, and while I cannot be sure which virus courses through his veins, I am sure that Birkin was somehow involved. Dr. Wesker's brimstone-coloured eyes, the way he controls the infected amphibian creatures that are plaguing Rockfort Island. He is a Tyrant, of that I am sure. Perhaps when I destroy him, I can perform an autopsy to isolate the virus. That is, if there are any remains left.  
  
I am laughing now, laughing at Umbrella and the others. Their feeble attempts to restrain me and use me as their own personal bio-organic weapon will soon prove futile. Nevertheless, I cannot seem to rid myself of this menacing overshadow. Waiting gives one much time to think, and waiting is all that I have for now. If the T-Veronica demonstrates to be less powerful than I ascertain, what will be the outcome?  
  
Impossible!  
  
I stand the most powerful being in the known universe, and yet I have my doubts. Perhaps I should entertain these sentiments enough to do what needs to be done. My legacy should be known throughout the world, so that those under my rule will understand why I am to be glorified as their queen. Now seems the perfect opportunity to tell my story, from the day of my "conception" to the present. As patience is my friend for the time being, I shall start at the beginning.  
  
-Alexia Ashford 


	2. Birthing Secrets

December 27, 1998  
  
I know little of my mother. There was absolutely no time for acquaintance, thanks to Father's paranoia. Perhaps that was for the best, as she would have grown up hating me for exceeding her capabilities. Alfred and I would have dealt with her eventually, had Father not taken things into his own hands. Even so, I digress... Through a journal that I found shortly before entering cryogenic state, I was able to piece together a general time line of events. I will not lie and say that Father's actions against Mother did not serve as a partial reason for his...change. But, that comes later. At least through the notes I have discovered, I can tell the story of my conception, however bizarre that might be. It is most likely the greatest accomplishment in the history of man - my creation.  
  
However...  
  
It is a rather sad story, truth be told.  
  
-Alexia Ashford  
  
______________________  
  
Alexander Ashford sipped his warm, amber Cognac from a ballon glass, his surname etched in a rolling, fluid hand into the fragile crystal. The pleasant, satisfying aroma of fresh fruits filled his senses, and the warmth of the brandy alleviated the chill that only the Antarctica base could impose. He smiled to himself, setting down his glass onto the grand dining room tabletop and retrieving his journal from a stack of notes. Removing the golden fountain pen from his breast pocket, he began writing into the leather-bound book, his aristocratic penmanship filling page after page of parchment:  
  
September 21, 1970  
  
My dearest ancestor, Veronica Ashford,  
  
The last chapter of my research has been completed. As I wrote to you months ago, I was able to extract the intelligence gene from a blood sample that has been stored since your tragic passing. I kept it safely in a locked freezer until a proper surrogate mother could be provided, one of a noble and superior upbringing. Per my orders, the young lady chosen shares your characteristics, although her beauty could never equal yours. The woman is Beatrice Rockfort, the twenty-five year old child of a prominent family hailing from England. She did not choose to follow willingly, so my servants were forced to abduct her; however, I feel that once my magnificent plan is revealed, she will be proud to carry the children containing your blood, our blood.  
  
Of course, young Beatrice will have to be dealt with immediately after the birth of the twins, but such is to be expected. I cannot have Ozwell Spencer aware of my research or plans, considering that already he controls a large portion of Umbrella, Inc., a company that should rightfully be in the Ashford's charge. My father, Lord Edward, is responsible for the creation of the Mother Virus, not that buffoon of a man, Spencer.  
  
I cannot fail my father. I cannot fail you.  
  
The twins will be the crowning of the Ashford name, and their intelligence will second only yours, my matriarch. When Spencer is gone, the company will look to my children for leadership, and we will control Umbrella Pharmaceuticals once again. Ahh, if only that day was now. If only fifteen years could pass in the blink of an eye. I take comfort in the knowledge that our name will carry the honor and prestige it once did in the days of your life, Veronica.  
  
I feel your spirit, looking over my shoulder even now, and your beauty and intelligence is inspiration! I know that you would approve of my work, and how I wish that you were here to guide me. I admit that my heart is weary from years of study, but to see the day! It will be worth everything and more.  
  
Your Loyal Servant,  
  
Alexander Ashford  
  
______________________  
  
Closing the book and laying it flat on the table, Alexander stared into the fireplace, mesmerized by the dancing flame tongues licking within their stone prison. It was even grander a fireplace than the one located inside of George Trevor's last accomplishment, the sprawling Spencer mansion, although most other characteristics were identical. Alexander had always admired the beautiful Spencer Estate, its many rooms, exquisite carpets, and majestic staircases. What better way to mock Spencer than by building a replica of the mansion in this Antarctic base, a home that would house the two children that would be responsible for the downfall of Umbrella's "founder"?  
  
His revelry was interrupted by the sound of footsteps outside the dining room door. Instinctively, he reached for the silver revolver resting distantly on the long table and waited patiently, his finger holding steadily to the trigger. He couldn't underestimate Spencer and his contacts; they were everywhere, waiting on him to make a move that would give them the perfect opportunity. Training his aim on the large double doors, he awaited the confrontation, beads of perspiration slowly oozing their way down his forehead. The brass knob clicked, echoing loudly in his ears, causing his back to stiffen.  
  
"My Lord," a soft voice called through the partially open door. Alexander relaxed and took in a loud gulp of air, the grip on the gun retracting before returning it to the table.  
  
"Yes, Harman. Enter." Alexander heard the door creak on its hinges and watched as the middle-aged man entered the room, his shadow elongated against the wall. Scott Harman, butler to the Ashfords for nearly five years, approached the chair where Alexander sat and bowed low.  
  
"Lord Alexander, I came to inform you that Ms. Rockfort's tests were positive. The implantation procedure has, by all accounts, been a success," Harman spoke, his voice barely above a whisper and his face showing no emotion.  
  
Alexander found it amusing that the butler was always speaking in hushed tones, as if the walls had ears. Perhaps with the severity of the situation, Harman's actions were ideal. "Excellent! Is the woman conscious?"  
  
The butler nodded in response, the bright light of the fire reflecting in his eyes. "Indeed, she woke only moments ago. However, she is in a highly agitated state and is asking many questions. With your permission, I would like to give her the mild sedative that you have prepared for her during pregnancy. The stress could not possibly be good for the embryos."  
  
Alexander held up his hand, silencing the butler before he could say another word. It was only noble that the woman should know a portion of her situation. "I wish to speak with her before you do so. Ms. Rockfort is surely afraid, and perhaps her tension will ease once I speak to her."  
  
"As you wish, my Lord. Will there be anything else?" Harman inquired, scooping up the empty brandy glass from the dining room table with a graceful wave of his hand.  
  
"Yes, draw me a bath. I'm quite sure that the confrontation with the young lady will be most unpleasant, and perhaps a hot soak will ease my rigidity," Alexander spoke, rising from his chair and clearing the dining room with longs strides. "And, Harman, I'd like a warm glass of brandy to drink after my bath. God only knows that I'll need it." Alexander genuflected in the middle of the spacious dining area, crossing himself before rising to leave the room.  
  
"Of course, my Lord," Harman assured, crossing himself mechanically. He sighed deeply, a frown creasing his face as his master exited through the double doors and ascended the large staircase of the entrance way, footsteps almost muted by the thick carpet. The butler turned, staring into the fire, his face solemn as stone. He whispered to no one, his hushed voice quivering as he spoke. "As if these small acts of godliness will afford us any mercy from the higher power. Judgment Day will be a terrible thing for the Ashfords...and for me."  
  
______________________  
  
Alexander reached the oak door of the bedroom that housed his new guest and quickly cleared his throat before knocking. There was no response from inside. Impatiently, he knocked once again, harder this time, before opening the door and entering. Standing at the window was Beatrice Rockfort, her long lavender gown perfectly pressed and hanging limply around her porcelain shoulders. She did not acknowledge his entry, but kept her back to him, her graceful body moving to the time of her slow breathing.  
  
"Good evening, my lady," he began, closing the door behind him and approaching her slowly, almost cautiously. "Harman informed me that you were conscious. I am most pleased by the progression of our plan."  
  
Beatrice turned, her dark eyes flashing with immense anger and confusion. Her long, chestnut hair fell in layers around her shoulders as she moved towards him, her stride purposeful. "I woke up only moments ago to realize that you've drug me from my home and family and brought me to this godforsaken frozen hell for no apparent reason. I'm not even sure how long I've been here, and no one will give me answers." She stood nose to nose with Alexander, daring him to breath. "And I want to know what's going on."  
  
Alexander took a step back from the irate woman, extending his hand to meet hers. She watched guardedly as he reached for her fingers, pulling them to his lips and planting a short kiss on them. As enraged as she was, she found herself momentarily speechless by the perversely charming gesture, almost caught off of her guard.  
  
"My lady, I am Lord Alexander Ashford, son of Lord Edward Ashford. We have met before, although I'm afraid that you were...incapacitated at the time," he spoke leisurely, his voice low and deep. "I thought it best that I come to you and explain the situation, in an attempt to ease your worry and anger." He took a seat in one of the two plush chairs occupying the room, waving his hand to the other in a silent invitation.  
  
Beatrice eyed him thoroughly, trying to discern whether he was being genuine. Although she was scared out of her wits, she couldn't help but have a bizarre curiosity about her predicament. Why was she here? And who was this man sitting before her? A Lord? He was clearly refined, eyes of the most sparkling blue and hair the color of a bright spring day, with a deep, strong voice that had a certain allure to it, despite her attempts to shut him out. He was gracefully clad in a lengthy navy blue wool overcoat and black slacks, and even his shoes appeared expensive. He was something alright, and against her better judgment, she found herself sitting across from him in the padded chair.  
  
"How long have I been here?" she inquired, her tone hinting at suspicion.  
  
The corners of Alexander's eyelids wrinkled as he smiled, and he appeared pleased that she'd decided to hear him out. "Only one day," Alexander lied. "We had to sedate you on the trip in order to keep you from injuring yourself or your captors. From what I understand, you were quite a handful; elbowing a guard and breaking his nose, while nearly castrating another." He let out a chuckle, attempting to ease the distressed young woman. He was delighted to see her give a legitimate smirk; however, he did not entertain this for long, as his face quickly turned solemn. "All joking aside, miss, I feel that you must know the importance of your stay here. I will now explain to you why this mission was of the utmost secrecy, although some of it will be hard to believe." He gazed straight into her almond-shaped eyes, addressing her as if confiding in his most trusted friend. "My dear Beatrice, have you ever heard of the company, Umbrella, Inc.?"  
  
Beatrice paused for a moment, laying a slim finger against her pallid cheek. "Of course I have. Although relatively new, it is one of the leading pharmaceutical and electronic enterprises in the world. I believe many homes in the United States have a product of some kind manufactured by the company." She stopped, as if waiting for him to laugh at or correct her. He did neither, only watched her with grim features, fingers steepled as if in a quiet prayer.  
  
"You are absolutely correct, my dear. A least, to a certain degree." Alexander closed his eyes and frowned, taking in a considerable breath as if waging some unseen battle in his mind. Crooking a finger, he beckoned her forward, leaning his face close enough to hers that she could feel his warm breath against her cheek. Lightly running his index finger down her nose, he whispered, sounding almost giddy as he did so. "Not all of their funding comes from the sale of legal products."  
  
She wrinkled her brows but kept her face only millimeters from his until his stubble grazed over her skin like tiny branches. "And what, pray tell, does that mean? Do they sell illegal drugs or something?"  
  
Alexander's bellowing laughter echoed in her ears, causing her to recoil in fright. Placing a fair hand to her neck, she listened to the man's hysterics roll from his gut even after tears began to form in the corners of his eyes. Taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket, he dabbed the liquid from his lids and wiped the side of his upturned mouth, still seeming on the edge of another outburst. "Ohh, my dear woman. Illegal drugs are so minor. Why, with Umbrella being the company that it is, being federally charged with distribution of drugs would result in little more than a slap on the wrist. The corporation has the funds to pay off any lawyer or judge." His features turned serious once more, his irises an icy blue and his mouth set into a thin line. "What I am speaking of is even worse. What I am speaking of is playing God. Genetic mutation, viral warfare, using diseased humans as weapons that seek out flesh." Sighing, he laid his head back against the chair back, closing his eyes and folding his hands in his lap. "I don't expect you to understand everything. You have not been trained to do so. However, I will say this much. Umbrella's current project is something that they like to call the T-Virus. It is powerful, powerful enough to wipe out millions. When injected into living tissue, the virus regenerates cells while slowly killing off the infected individual. What results is a zombie-like creature, if I may; a cannibalistic horror who's only thought is consuming fresh meat. It is already dead, so "killing" it is nearly impossible. Do you understand?"  
  
Beatrice's face was ashen, and her eyes shifted from one corner of the room to the next, her hands wringing in her lap. "I do. But...what do I have to do with any of this?" Her voice shook, and her brows furrowed as if trying to disassociate herself from any possible connection.  
  
Alexander patted her arm and kept his hand on her shoulder reassuringly. "You see, Ms. Rockfort, Umbrella has been surveying you for some time. They were planning to kidnap you and take you as their prisoner to conduct tests." When Beatrice gave him a horrified but unsure look, he continued, sincerity the core of his voice. "I know what you are thinking. 'Why me?' You see, a certain percent of individuals in the world genetically qualify to become something more than a mindless zombie. Umbrella cannot be sure what the results of these tests will be, but they hope to create a super-weapon that still retains thought and decision- making power. As we speak, they have begun to search for candidates for this new operation. And unfortunately for you, my dear, you have qualified for their fundamental criterions." He reached into his coat, bringing out a small manila envelope. "These pictures will prove to you that what I speak is true. You can tell by the detail that they are not forged."  
  
Lifting a brow, Beatrice accepted the envelope from the man and adjusted the clasped metal prongs. Inside were a handful of documents, memos, and photographs which she silently viewed, her eyes growing in horror with each passing page. The final photo showed a zombie in the last stages of decomposition, leering wickedly at the camera with a hungry tongue flailed across its dead lips. She gasped, throwing the documents onto the floor and bringing her quaking hands to her lips. "No! You cannot let them take me! I don't want to become that! Please!" Tears fell down her pale cheeks, sparkling as they hit the light and fell to her dress in small splotches. She leaped to her feet quickly, her back straight as a board, and began pacing the room, sobbing all the while. Alexander rose as well, placing a comforting hand on her back.  
  
"That is why I brought you here, Beatrice! My glorious plan is simply to save your life! I learned through confidential resources that Umbrella planned to execute this horrendous proposal. I had to stop them, as it was my duty to keep a beautiful, noble, and respected woman such as you out of harms way!" He stopped, turning her body to face his, offering a small smile. "I brought you here because this is where I can protect you. This is where Umbrella cannot find you. Don't you understand?"  
  
She looked confused, tears still spilling from her glistening eyes. "How do you know that I'm safe here? Could they not track me down?" Her body shook from head to toe; her skin was clammy and coated with a sheen of nervous sweat.  
  
"Only if you go back. No one knows that you are here, and it can stay that way until Umbrella decides to give up their search; however, only you can make that decision," Alexander spoke, his voice cracking as if in turmoil, a tear falling from his eye. "I've brought you this far to protect you, but I cannot be responsible for whatever may happen to you if you leave this place, Beatrice."  
  
Alexander noticed that Beatrice seemed placated, trusting, and almost thankful. Her behavior was a total turn around from what it had been only five minutes earlier, which was difficult for him to understand. Could this girl be so naïve as to believe a total stranger, especially with such an incredible claim? His question was answered when she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, squeezing him in a tight embrace. "With your permission, Lord Alexander, I would like to stay here for just a little while. At least until things have calmed down. I do appreciate you taking my well-being to heart," she spoke, blushing deeply. "Would you mind staying with me tonight, just for a little while? After all you've told me, I do not want to fall asleep alone."  
  
He smiled, gently tugging a strand of her hair from her eyes. "Of course. I could not leave you alone, my dear." Planting a kiss on her damp forehead, he took her hands in his and gave them a squeeze. "I know that things look bleak, but all will work out in the end. I promise to you that you will be protected while in my care."  
  
"For some reason, I trust you. Perhaps it is those sparkling eyes of yours, or the way you throw your shoulders back when you walk. Or possibly the way you speak to me." She returned his smile with one of her own, before turning away from him and unzipping her gown. It fell to the floor in a large pool of lavender, and she gracefully stepped out of it, her sheer underclothes revealing the lean, sinewy muscles of her body as they stretched. Beatrice looked over her shoulder, her cheeks pink, her lips puckered slightly, and her eyes cloudy. She sauntered to him as a woman of experience would, and placed her hands on the sides of his cheeks, her mouth inches from his. "I hope you don't consider me less of a lady for what I am about to do, Lord Alexander. I just want to show my appreciation for every effort that you have taken to save my life."  
  
Alexander simply smiled. "I cannot say that I would be disappointed, my dear." He wrapped his hands around her slim waist and pulled her closer, lowering his lips to hers in a soft kiss. Beatrice's eyelids fluttered, and she quickly turned the sweet kiss into a more passionate one.  
  
A low moan escaped Alexander's throat as Beatrice began running her fingers through his hair roughly, pressing her tongue into his mouth with darting thrusts. He found that she was leading him to the large canopy bed, unbuttoning his overcoat and pulling it from him in the process. He stopped, breaking their kiss briefly, his voice coming in short gasps. "Are you sure that you want to do this?"  
  
Beatrice let out a high-pitched giggle, gently tugging on his hair. "Just because I am a lady doesn't mean that I have no experience with men," she spoke in sultry tone. "I'm sure that I can teach you a thing or two." With that, she shoved him onto the bed, crawling on top of him and kissing his lips ferociously.  
  
Alexander couldn't help but smile as Beatrice effortlessly removed his clothing and her own. This was going to be much easier than he'd anticipated.  
  
______________________  
  
An hour later, Alexander arrived into the master bedroom, his hair mussed and his clothing uncharacteristically disheveled. Scott Harman squinted from his chair, placing the well-worn paperback onto the side table at his left.  
  
"My lord! I was beginning to wonder! Is everything alright?" Harman exclaimed, sounding sick with worry. He stood immediately, striding to Alexander in a purposeful manner. Quirking a brow, Harman halted and surveyed his master's condition. "I'm afraid that your bath has already run cold. Not to mention your brandy."  
  
Alexander laughed maniacally, running forked fingers through his hair. "Ah, Harman! Forget the bath AND the brandy! There are much more important matters at hand!"  
  
"I take it that Ms. Rockfort did not take the news very well?" Harman replied dryly, although Alexander didn't seem to notice. The butler had become acquainted with the rather unusual behaviors displayed by his Lord, but he was quite curious as to why the young man was so enraptured.  
  
"On the contrary, Harman," Alexander raved, his eyes wild. "As I spoke to her, I had the most brilliant idea! A way to keep from telling her about my research; in essence, keeping the information from getting into the wrong hands. Of course, I had to tell a few small fibs, but in the end, she was practically ripping away my clothes. There is no need to inform her that she is already with child, and when she becomes aware of her pregnancy, she will assume that it is a result of our little rendezvous tonight. Why go into so much unbelievable detail when a few simple lies will keep her in my control for the nine months needed?"  
  
Harman nearly fell where he stood, his wrinkled face turning the color of chalk. "You mean, my Lord, you didn't tell her? What does she know?" He heard a subtle clomp as his paperback fell from the table into the carpet.  
  
Alexander didn't acknowledge the butler at first, but instead took on the task of turning down the bedcovers and adjusting the pillows. After each was in place, he eyed the butler with more than a hint of satisfaction. "The young lady is under the impression that she has been selected as a T-Virus specimen, and that I, her brave and noble knight in shining armor has rescued her from the evil deeds that Umbrella schemed against her! Thanks to the pictures that our dear friend, Markus, took of the carriers' evaluations inside the Arklay lab, I was able to assure her that she would become one of them if she did not stay here. Not only was the young woman grateful, she proceeded to show her appreciation through a way that will not lead to questions when the twins are discovered."  
  
"What shall happen to her after the birth of the children?" Harman inquired, afraid of the results that he would hear.  
  
"Of course, Harman, I cannot have her learning the truth. If she does so, Spencer will surely hear of my plans and send his men after all of us. That would make all of my hard work a waste, and the Ashford name would be tarnished forever!" Alexander screamed, his voice inhuman. He breathed in deep, exhaling slowly before he spoke again, softer. "When the twins are borne, Harman, you will have the opportunity to prove where your loyalties lie."  
  
Harman could barely stammer in response. "But...L-l-ord Ashford! I...I most certainly cannot do such a thing! I brought her here for you, but I did not expect to have to..."  
  
Alexander smiled gleefully, reaching into his nightstand table and taking out an empty syringe, the needle sparkling under the candlelight. "You will, Harman, to prove that you are a loyal servant of the Ashford family. Do you not know that your father had to dispose of the chaff when necessary?"  
  
The butler blinked, his mouth dry as cotton, but said nothing in response.  
  
"I know that you realize the severity of the situation, Harman. If you do not kill Ms. Rockfort immediately after the birth of the children, I will be forced to do it. And who knows what will become of the Ashford's only butler afterwards?" Alexander spat wickedly.  
  
Harman's knees shook, his heart slammed in his chest...but he reached out and retrieved the syringe, gripping it in his right hand until it nearly shattered. "It shall be done, my Lord." 


	3. Blue Blood

December 27, 1998  
  
I spoke, read, and wrote English fluently by the age of one year old. From that time on, I would occasionally ask Father why he only had one portrait of Mother. He would smile nervously and pat me on the head, claiming that she died before any others could be made. I would then inquire as to what caused her death, and every time that I did, a frightened look would come into his eyes, an expression similar to the one worn by the animals that Alfred and I would experiment on; the look that prey gives its predator before the slaughter. He would always declare the same thing, his voice jovial with an undertone of panic: "Alexia Veronica Ashford, you are too young to ask these kinds of questions. Your mother, God rest her soul, wouldn't want you to be so curious." Before I could utter another word, he would cross himself in the fashion of some sort of pious priest, instruct me to do the same, and insist that I get back to my studies.  
  
I never believed him for a moment.  
  
But perhaps I am straying from the main purpose of these diaries. I shall continue.  
  
Before my birth, Father had insisted that the bodies of deceased Ashford predecessors be exhumed and transported to the Antarctic base in order to preserve their privacy and respect. He appended a spacious room to the mansion that would shield our loved ones' remains from the biting wind and indescribable cold, and it was an area that only an Ashford could enter. It was truly a work of art; the ground beneath had been thawed, lush grass and wildflowers had been planted, and a holographic scene of a beautiful blue sky dotted with cotton-shaped clouds had been applied to the walls. Many times, I would visit the Ashford Cemetery, surveying the final resting place of my ancestors when I grew weary of the endless amount of lessons. I would leisurely pass by the gravesites of Our Lady Veronica, Great-Great- Grandfather Stanley, Great-Grandfathers Thomas and Arthur, and Grandfather Edward in respected silence, placing a single red rose near the entrance of each enormous stone mausoleum. However, I would keep walking until I reached a grassy plot situated in the far corner of the room. Only a petite, rectangular marble headstone crowned with the statue of a weeping angel marked its existence, and the austere inscription read "B. L. Rockfort - Mother". I would sit there a few hours a week, making sure that the grass was clipped, the flowers watered, and the tombstone polished, but not out of love or devotion, mind you. It was simply out of respect; honoring my mother even in death. Father would sometimes scrutinize me from the entrance, a stony, disapproving glare crossing his face, his arms folded firmly across his chest. When I'd grudgingly acknowledge his presence, his eyes would become unreadable slits and he would give a melodramatic sigh before slamming shut the door.  
  
I was surprised that Father buried her in the family cemetery; I'd expect him to have thrown her lifeless carcass into the Antarctic elements, as such measures would go hand in hand with his callous character. Perhaps he had more compassion than I gave him credit for. Or perhaps he was trying to avoid future questions from his super-intelligent children. Either way, I feel no pity for him.  
  
As soon as this confrontation is over, I will retrieve Alfred's body from the cryogenic case and bury him next to Mother. The poor soul deserves that, at least, after his years of unrelenting service to me. I could clearly see it in his pale, dying eyes; the sadness of his final breaths coupled with infinite happiness to see me alive once again. Intermingled with a death rattle deep in his lungs were the words "I love you, Alexia. I love you, my Queen." All I could do was run my fingers through his hair, sing softly, and try to comfort him before he closed his eyes permanently. There was no use in attempting to save his life, as his work had been done. In his own inept and elementary style, he kept my secrets safe from those who would seek to destroy my research.  
  
Even so, I wish that he would have lived just a bit longer, as he would have enjoyed seeing our plans fruit into reality. I would have killed him in the end, for sharing my power with any other Ashford (or anyone else, for that matter) is out of the question, but I suppose that, much like the Queen Ant, I must make sacrifices to best serve the colony. In any case, his memory will live on in my mind and his dedication will always be appreciated.  
  
-Alexia Ashford  
  
________________________  
  
"Harman, for godsakes, will you take the damned picture?" Alexander huffed, an irritated frown plastered across his face. He loathed photos almost as much as he detested having his portrait painted; it was a waste of his valuable time, time that he could use to resume his research into Umbrella's newest commodity, the T-Virus.  
  
"Alexander, stop being so cross," Beatrice scolded, wagging a commanding finger in his direction. "Besides, the children will be arriving any day now. I'm sure that they would enjoy seeing what their mother and father looked like before they were born." She patted her swollen stomach delicately, suddenly lost in her own world. "I cannot believe that they will be here soon. What do you think, Alexander? Two boys, two girls, or one of each?"  
  
Alexander rested his head in his palm, feeling extremely fatigued and irritated. "For the hundredth time, Beatrice, I'm sure I don't know," he spoke through clenched teeth, his words coarse and exact. "Right now, all I care about is whether or not my bungling butler can snap this photo so that I can get back to the study."  
  
"You're such a spoil-sport," Beatrice grumbled, her bottom lip jetting forward in a pout. "You don't seem to want these babies one bit. I'm sure that I'll be the one doing all the work for them, while you're up in that room, reading that incessant amount of paperwork."  
  
"Beatrice, sometimes you can be such a..."  
  
"I believe the camera is ready, my Lord," Harman interjected, maneuvering the tripod to an acceptable angle. "Ms. Rockfort, please sit up just a tad higher so that we can see the twins. Lord Alexander, rest your hand on her left shoulder. Yes, perfect." Harman gazed through the viewing lens, adjusting the focus. "On the count of three. One...two...three."  
  
The flashbulb lit up the room with a sudden burst, causing Alexander to see stars dance before his eyes. "Thank God that's over. Harman, I'll take my brandy inside the study tonight. I do not wish to be disturbed under any circumstances." Before giving anyone the chance to respond, he lightly kissed Beatrice's pallid cheek and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.  
  
"Was it something I said?" Beatrice sniffled, tears forming in her eyes.  
  
Harman forced a quiet chuckle. "No, my Lady. That is just the way the master is. His research is very important to him." He approached her, resting his hand on her shoulder. "He has been that way for as long as I've known him, always striving to be the best that he can be."  
  
Beatrice nodded thoughtfully but didn't seem convinced by the butler's words. "Even so, I hope that he plans on changing his behavior after the children are born. They need a father that takes part in their lives, wouldn't you say?" She looked up at him with hopeful doe-brown eyes, pleading with him to agree to her side.  
  
Harman nodded solemnly, feeling guilt flush his face. 'Oh dear Beatrice, if only you knew what was to come,' his mind told her in secret, and how he wished that he could hear his thoughts. He tried to smile reassuringly, although his lips felt like dead weight. "Indeed. But let us not worry about that now. You never know what will change when the twins are born. Lord Alexander will surely become a wonderful father figure for the children; of this I am most positive."  
  
She seemed appeased, her mouth forming a genuine smile that showed her straight, white teeth. She dug her fingernail into the fabric of the oversized chair in which she sat, her eyes level with the fireplace. "I'm sure that you are right, Harman. When he sees the beautiful children that we have created, he'll realize how important it is to spend time with us. We'll be a family." Her hand moved to her midsection, and her index finger drew lazy, imaginary circles on her large stomach, as if tickling the fetuses inside her womb. "Any time now, they will be here."  
  
The butler made a small choking sound in the back of his throat and instinctively turned himself away from the young mother-to-be's innocent eyes. "Yes, Ms. Rockfort. The children will be lucky to have a kind, caring mother such as you. I cannot wait for the day that they arrive," he lied, hoping that she would not see through his unsteady voice or notice his quaking hands. With that, he began to amble away, fearing that he would allow his guilt to overwhelm him. "I must take the master his brandy, but I will routinely check on you during the night. Good evening." He looked toward her once more, bowed, and left the room before his conscience required him to do the right thing.  
  
________________________  
  
May 13, 1971  
  
My dearest ancestor, Veronica Ashford,  
  
Please excuse my lack of devotion. Although you are my top priority, I fear that I have not had the opportunity to correspond with you as much as I would like to. However, it is rather late in the evening, and I have finally acquired a break from my research. I will give you a summary of the events that have occurred in the past nine months.  
  
The implantation procedure has gone exceptionally well! The surrogate mother is not aware that the process even took place, but instead is under the false assumption that the pregnancy came about through...natural methods. I could not have had the situation any better if I had planned it! She has not asked pertinent questions, and thus, I have been able to keep my research a secret without having the irritating problem of lying to the girl.  
  
We still have not found names for the children (as their sexes cannot be determined), but I have a feeling that you will tell me when the time comes. For now, I have nothing more to do than wait. Ms. Rockfort's due date is quickly approaching, and the children could arrive at any time.  
  
I hear someone approaching my study as I write this entry. I will inform you of more once all is settled.  
  
Your Loyal Servant,  
  
Alexander Ashford  
  
________________________  
  
Alexander hurriedly hid the leather book in the second drawer of his desk, locked it, and plucked up the book lying haphazardly across the floor. Trying to appear enthralled in the pages, he muttered a non- committal 'Come in' when the forceful knocking resounded from the door.  
  
Harman entered the study as a hurricane would, sweat dripping from his brow, his breathing shallow and quick. "My Lord! It is time! When I went to check on Ms. Rockfort, I found that her water had broken. I'm unsure how long that it has been, although she claims that it has been hours. She requires your assistance!" he spoke, his voice high-pitched and nervous.  
  
Alexander flew to his feet as if someone had shocked him, the book flying from his grasp onto the soft carpet. "Excellent. I must retrieve my instruments from the lab, but please assure Ms. Rockfort that I will arrive momentarily." He swiftly pushed past the butler, sprinting from the study and into the main hall. "And Harman!" he exclaimed, his voice echoing through the airy entranceway. "Get a tub of warm water and some towels. Quickly!"  
  
________________________  
  
Beatrice's screams could be heard throughout the sprawling mansion, and it grated on Alexander's nerves. Did the woman have to make such a fuss? She was probably just experiencing latent contractions, ones that would be cake in comparison to what she would soon experience. Could she not bite her lip and try to see through the pain? He shook his head and scooped up the bag of instruments that he had prepared for this very day, the metal tools clanking together as he left the lab and strode down the long hallway. He desperately hoped that the labor process would be relatively brief, as the thought of listening to Beatrice screeching for hours on end did not appeal to him.  
  
'Relax, Alexander,' an aristocratic female voice echoed in his brain. 'This will be over shortly, and then, you will be able to commence your plan. You must be patient.'  
  
"I know, my dear Veronica, but waiting is the most difficult part," Alexander spoke aloud. "And I have a feeling that the woman will not make this much easier, with all of that yelling and carrying on when contractions have probably not even set in."  
  
The tinkling voice laughed softly, seemingly amused by his behavior. 'Worry not. This is her first child, and she is only going through the motions. Assure her that she is secure. I will be there with you, guiding your hands. When you see the faces of your children, I will be there, applauding your achievement. And as you lovingly clean them, I will give you their names.'  
  
Alexander beamed, feeling at peace, and the soothing tone inside his head evaporated like water on a sweltering day, leaving only a fine, reassuring mist in its wake. Before he realized it, he was in front of Beatrice's door, only the sounds of soft whimpering escaping to his ears. 'At least she has calmed herself,' he reasoned. 'Perhaps Veronica is right. This may be a smoother process than I first suspected.' He entered, Beatrice's deep gasps meeting him.  
  
"Ah, my dear Beatrice. How are you feeling?" he inquired, taking a chair and pulling it near her bedside. He took a seat and crossed his leg over the other, resting his elbow on the chair's arm.  
  
"It hurts, Alexander. I had no idea that it would be this painful," Beatrice rasped, her speech somewhat slurred. "When will it be time?"  
  
Alexander smiled thinly, taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbing at the rivulets of sweat coursing down her forehead. "I am not sure. You must be patient and concentrate on your breathing. That will be the only way to ease the pain, my dear. Let me see your wrist." He didn't wait for her to offer it, but plucked her delicate hand from the bed and placed his fingertips on her pulse, timing it with his watch. "Very good. Let me take a look at you."  
  
He picked up the chair and placed it near the bed's end before instructing her to part her knees. The examination was relatively short, and after a few minutes he spoke, his voice strong and unwavering. "It is not yet time. How far apart are your contractions? And how long do they last?"  
  
Her eyes were glazed, and her lips were pale and quivering as she growled her response. "How the bloody hell should I know? Do I look as if I have a watch handy?"  
  
"Can you give me an estimated time?" he spoke coolly, rubbing the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. He retreated to the window, his mirror image speckled with stars from the night sky. 'The moon is beautiful tonight,' he thought, surprised by his lack of concentration.  
  
Beatrice was silent for a few moments, and he could see her reflection's delicate fingers gripping at the bed sheets, her mouth set in a grim line. Irritation radiated from her body, and Alexander could sense it, whether he was gazing in her direction or not. "I'd say every ten minutes or so. They usually are rather short, but are getting worse as time goes by."  
  
Unmoved by the gravel evident in her voice, he twisted back to face her. "I'm think the best advice I could give you would be to try and rest. And concentrate on your breathing." He squatted down near her, giving her a tender smile. "I will be here until the time comes. But as I said, we must be patient. Has Harman already come?"  
  
She concurred, her hair sticking to the damp pillow. "He told me that you would be here soon. Then he left to get some water and towels. When will this pain cease, Alexander?"  
  
He furrowed his brows. "It usually averages close to fifteen hours, although it can often times be more..." He halted when she began wincing and clutching her stomach, her teeth clenched forcefully together. "Breathe. As we have practiced."  
  
Many seconds later, her face resumed calmness, the contraction easing. "They seem to be getting closer, Alexander."  
  
"Good. Perhaps the labor process will not take as long as I suspect."  
  
________________________  
  
"Push, Beatrice!" Alexander called, his nerves on edge. "You can do this!"  
  
"I'm trying!" Beatrice screamed back between breaths. Her eyes were pinched shut, her breathing erratic, and her back arched.  
  
Alexander saw the first baby crowning; the time was near. "Alright, Beatrice. Relax for a moment, take some deep breathes. When I say push, I want you to give it one more shot. Are you ready?" He saw Beatrice give a silent affirmation, her muscles jerking in spasms, her feet clamped into tight semi-circles. "Okay...Push!"  
  
Beatrice bit her bloodless lip and pushed, her cries echoing throughout the room. Within moments, Alexander saw one shoulder, than two, then the rest of the baby. It was a boy, a beautiful boy with light hair and piercing, blue eyes. Alexander cut the umbilical cord and cleaned the infant's face before handing him to Harman.  
  
"It's a boy." Alexander smiled, his voice ecstatic.  
  
"Can I see him?" Beatrice sighed, an exasperated smile on her lips.  
  
"No, not yet. You still have a little more work to do. Don't forget that there is still one more child to come," he spoke, although he wished that the opposite was true. One perfect boy, that's all that he needed. "Are you ready to begin again?"  
  
Beatrice nodded her agreement. Minutes later, another child was born, this one a girl. The two children squealed in synchronized time, arms flailing about, and Harman held them both close to his body as Alexander washed his hands and work area.  
  
"You did wonderful, Beatrice. A boy and a girl. I could not be happier," Alexander spoke proudly, and for the first time, he realized how difficult the next stage of his plan was going to be. He sat down next to her on the bed and lovingly stroked her perspiration-soaked hair, melding his other hand with hers.  
  
Beatrice sobbed quietly, insisting that she wanted to hold her children. Harman gently placed the blanketed babies in the crooks of her arms, and she cooed to them, her tears falling on the forehead of the girl. "What shall their names be, Alexander?"  
  
The wispy voice returned into Alexander's head, demure and rich in his mind. 'The boy shall be called Alfred Edward. The girl, the one that will return the Ashford name to its greatness, she shall be called Alexia Veronica.'  
  
"Alfred Edward and Alexia Veronica Ashford," Alexander repeated, his lips turning upward in a smile. "Exceptional names for exceptional children."  
  
Beatrice giggled, her tone near euphoria. She returned her attention to the bundles, cuddling them near her body, adoringly kissing each one on the forehead. "That's absolutely perfect. My little Alfred and Alexia. I love you both so very much."  
  
"Now Beatrice, I should take them to the bath and wash them. They need to be kept warm. While I do that, I will have Harman give you a sedative that will help you sleep. You need your rest after such a tiring ordeal," Alexander recommended as he lifted the twins into his arms. He was amazed by how similar they looked, how you could barely tell them apart. "I will be back soon. Say good-bye to the children."  
  
"Good-bye, my loves. I cannot wait to see you again!" Beatrice called as Alexander anxiously left her bedside.  
  
The lord subtly motioned his head at Harman, instructing him to follow behind his master. He whispered at the doorway, his voice almost tinged with sadness. "Harman, you know what to do. She will not suspect a thing. As far as she knows, you are simply giving her a sedative to help her sleep. She does not know that she will not wake from her slumber."  
  
Harman paled as if he'd seen a ghost, and his breath quickened. "Are you sure that this is a good idea, my Lord? Must she die? The children need a mother to help raise them."  
  
"I am all that they need. We cannot risk the detrimental evidence falling into the wrong hands, and she will surely begin to suspect something odd when the children's intelligence begins to blossom. What would happen if she somehow found out the truth? All of the work that I have put into this would be a waste, and the Ashford name would be ruined forever. Do you think your father would want that?" Alexander added in a hushed tone, his eyes burning. "You have to do this. It is the only way to ensure the prosperity of the children. The syringe is located inside of the medical bag that I brought inside. Inject her quickly and all will be accomplished."  
  
"Yes, my Lord," Harman ground out, his heart aching inside of his chest. Alexander nodded to him and left with the content children in tow, leaving Harman to an unknowing Beatrice. He approached her, his eyes flat and unemotional. He spied the black bag that contained the...mixture, and he took it in his hands, rummaging around for the box containing the syringe.  
  
"Weren't they beautiful, Harman? Perfect in every way!" Beatrice gushed. She laced her fingers together and brought them to her chin, the light in her eyes dancing as she spoke.  
  
Harman could only smile wanly. To speak of the children would prove too difficult now, and it would be a dead give away for what he was about to do. "Here is the sedative that Lord Alexander has provided for you. You will finally get some rest, my dear. May I see your arm?"  
  
"Of course," she agreed. The woman extended her arm towards the butler and rolled her sleeve upwards to expose a vein, unaware of his ill intentions. "I always hated needles before, but after childbirth, this should be a breeze."  
  
"Indeed," Harman spoke gravely, thumping the crook of her arm with his index finger. "Here it goes." The needle penetrated the skin, then the vein, and Harman quickly pressed on the stopper, allowing the clear fluid to violate her blood. He removed the syringe and patted her head. "Close your eyes now, Ms. Rockfort."  
  
She grinned at him, oblivious that the poison was making its way to her vital organs. "Thank you, Harman. I appreciate everything that you have done for me." She coughed lightly and shut her dark lashes, a pleased expression softening her features. Her face looked so peaceful, and Harman had to choke back the sobs that were attempting to escape his throat.  
  
Within a matter of minutes, she was gone.  
  
"Good-bye, Beatrice Rockfort. I pray that you pass to Heaven undeterred," Harman offered solemnly, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks. He removed the beaded rosary from his pocket and placed it flatly on her unmoving chest, crossing himself as he did so. Without another word, he covered her serene face with the bed sheet and fled the room. 


	4. Insight to Insanity

December 27, 1998  
  
Youth is such an amusing thing. A child is so impressionable, so innocent, and so unscarred. How easily those qualities are taken away, sometimes overnight or even the blink of an eye. As hard as it may be to believe, I was once this way; the content, carefree child who only wished to bring happiness to the world. That was many years ago, and how soon my mind changed.  
  
As I understand, fundamental attitudes, values, and ethics are learned at a relatively young age through peers and family members. Although I shiver at the thought of acquiring any objectives or beliefs from my father and Alfred, I accept the fact that a child with no playmates has little other ways to glean information on what is expected of her. After years of exposure to my family, no longer did I enjoy the smiles on people's faces or the laughter that emanated from them; instead, I relished the control that my intellect commanded and the fear that shown in the eyes of my biological experiments.  
  
Father set his futuristic goals into motion before Alfred and I could even speak, and my childhood was one of constant over-achievement despite the barriers that presented themselves. In younger days, my triumphs were a feeble attempt at making Father proud, much like any young child would wish to please their parent; however, as years went by, I began to understand that my father's life-long plan wasn't for me to excel but to polish the name that he had single-handedly tarnished through his folly. In a way, I was little more than the proverbial sacrificial lamb to be offered unto the most prestigious bidder when the time was right; pushed through extensive studies, refined as any formless lump of clay would be. This infuriated me.  
  
However, it taught me the art of using the inferior underlings to obtain power.  
  
My thoughts are becoming sporadic, as it is rather difficult to think clearly when I am forced to breathe in the horrid stench that the T-Virus carriers expel. The pitiful creatures shuffle around me, watching me from a distance with dead, hollow eyes...fearing me. It is absolutely rapturous knowing that they recognize the danger, although the corpses are nothing more than walking rotted waste. Even in their soulless, unresponsive mind, a primordial instinct warns them to steer clear of me, and they know that I am superior - a force not to be reckoned with. It is but a small taste of what is to come: the world-wide spread of the T-Veronica virus. Men, women, and children will bow before me as mindless servants, dedicating their pathetic lives in benefit of the Queen.  
  
-Alexia Ashford  
  
________________________  
  
Thin tendrils of smoke curled around his slim fingers, ascending in serpent-like coils to the sky blue ceiling tiles and dying there. Alexander brushed away the liquid forming at the creases of his lids and took another slow drag, watching the angry, red pinpoint of light near the end of the cigar inflame like a short temper. He tapped the cigar, listening to the ash fizzle in the damp grass.  
  
Veronica's shining mausoleum stood before him like a stone giant, casting him into a cold artificial shadow. Pastel pink and yellow tulips dotted with fresh water droplets bloomed against the marble walls, their inverted bell shapes following one another in neat, meticulous rows. Over the loudspeaker played the serene sounds of birds chirping, a creek's soothing waters, and a light breeze. It was as close to Heaven as one would ever find in the Antarctic tundra.  
  
Dutifully, Alexander placed a dozen black roses near the entrance and kneeled on the concrete walkway, the abrasive surface scuffing the knees of his black suit. "Veronica, it has been three years. Can you believe it? The children have progressed more than I could have imagined, and it is all thanks to you," he spoke as he bowed his head low. He brought his cigar to his lips and breathed in, then exhaled a ghost of rich, fragrant smoke.  
  
'You shouldn't smoke, Alexander. It is bad for your health,' a female voice responded in his head. She was stronger today, her tone more reprimanding than he was used to. 'Put that out if you wish to speak with me. I'll not have you desecrating my final resting place with that awful thing.'  
  
"Yes, my dear." Alexander stubbed out the cigar as if it'd burned his hands and rapidly flicked the remainder near the far corner of the room. He heard an almost inaudible thump as it ricocheted off of Beatrice's headstone and landed in the plush vegetation near her burial plot. Shrugging his shoulders, he returned his attention to the mausoleum's entranceway and laced his hands together as if in silent prayer.  
  
'Good,' Veronica mused. 'It is wonderful to see you again, Alexander. And I must agree with you; the twins have exceeded my expectations thus far. Alexia is extraordinarily gifted. She will do great things for the Ashford name.'  
  
"Indeed she will; however, I can't say that I am as enthusiastic about Alfred. He has potential, but seems rather unstable. Also, the way he follows Alexia's every move is rather disturbing. She is by far the dominant of the two, and I believe he'd do anything that she asked. He is quite protective of her, even at such a young age. It is bizarre, to say the very least," Alexander whispered, licking his lips nervously. His mind raced with the dreams that he'd been having for the past week; nightly dreams that left his pillow soaked with perspiration and his heart hammering in his chest. He wished that he could tell Veronica about the dreams, but she'd see no connection. 'They're just children,' she'd say. Attempting to shake the possible omens from his cluttered thoughts, he tenderly ran his fingertips across the smooth marble wall and took in a ragged breath.  
  
'He realizes that he'll never better Alexia. Perhaps his actions consist of the love/hate relationship that he has for her. In his mind, protecting her is a form of being the dominant twin. I fear that it will become a problem in the future, but the best course of action is to be the careful watchman. They are only three years old, and many things can change in the next few years,' Veronica added, her voice growing dimmer by the second. 'I must rest now. My strength is leaving me. Glory to the Ashfords.'  
  
She was gone. Alexander's eyes shot open as if being awoken from a trance, and he absently dusted imaginary lint from his jacket. Veronica's thoughts had echoed his exactly, and he found it uncanny how much their opinions paralleled. She had seemed to sense that he felt inexplicably nervous and tried to soothe his anxiety. She was so wise; he wasn't sure what'd he'd do if she ever left him.  
  
He rested his damp forehead in his hands, clamping his eyes closed once again. That dream...He couldn't be at peace until he figured out what it meant. For the hundredth time this week, he ran it through his mind like a picture show, each disturbing image so realistic that he trembled.  
  
*In his dreams, Alexia had grown to be a beautiful woman. She stood before him assertively, sharp sapphire eyes half hidden by her long blonde lashes, and strands of pale hair blew about her pallid cheekbones. She was clothed in a long, flowing gown of the deepest, darkest purple that he had ever seen, and her delicate hands were adorned with flawlessly white elbow- length gloves. She smiled to him softly, almost affectionately, rose- colored lips parted slightly to reveal perfectly aligned teeth. Her voice beckoned to him, deep and throaty, and she repeated the same three phrases over and over:  
  
'Father, I've missed you. I haven't seen you in so long. Alfred wants to see you again.'  
  
All of the plans for the twins, his years of research, the scrupulous preparation and unending studies had paid off - and she still loved him. With open arms, he rushed towards her, tears falling from his eyes and drying in the brisk wind. She continued to smile warmly at him, even after he reached her and enveloped her in a long hug. With a satisfied sigh, he released her from his embrace, but continued to hold tight to her slender fingers, afraid that she would disappear before his very eyes.  
  
'Alexia, I'm so glad to see you again. Where is your brother?' Alexander rushed out, his breath coming in gasps.  
  
At the mention of Alfred's name, Alexia's eyes went cold. The joyful shine faded from her face, and only tight, livid features remained. 'I'll let you see him, Father,' she rasped out, her voice almost inhuman. 'He's right behind you.'  
  
Alexander swiveled happily, ecstatic at the chance to see his son once again; however, his face quickly fell when he saw a being that could barely be called human. Alfred's physical appearance had changed dramatically; he was as thin as a stick, his skin carried a sick purple color, and the eyes that once held the softness of youth were pinpoint pupils incased by maniacal red irises. Alexander let out a frightened wheeze as Alfred's bony arms extended towards him, trying to encase him in a hug. Fighting off his son's advances, Alexander backed against his daughter's body and felt her arms clasp his shoulder with an iron grip.  
  
'Alfred, you know what to do. For the glory of the Ashfords,' Alexia declared, and Alexander's blood chilled.  
  
Beatrice. It was her voice in Alexia's mouth.  
  
His throat began to burn as if there was fire blazing through his lungs, and he cocked his head to see Alexia's face. In her place stood a misshapen female figure with flames erupting like volcanoes from her once supple, white skin, and each escaping blaze singed her hair and eyelashes, matting them together. Her eyes were like two twin, golden suns, and her charred lips carried a malicious grin - one of long-awaited revenge. Alexander's legs quaked beneath him, unable to carry him away from the female abomination. He tried to pivot his body towards Alfred's peculiar form, letting his arms sprawl out awkwardly, and he silently prayed that his son would come to his assistance.  
  
'Help me, Alfred,' Alexander pleaded. 'Your sister is mad!'  
  
Alfred lowered his head, an angry sneer spread across his sunken face. His skin began to peel away in large, wet chunks, falling haphazardly to the floor with loud plops. The already lanky form stretched longer, bones cracking and snapping, and what was left of his arms stretched out perpendicular to his body. The ulna shattered and clanked to the floor, and a net-like covering enclosed his humerous and radius, sagging until it formed what appeared to be wings. Two of his ribs burst from his chest, snaking outward and accumulating netting until they were nearly the length of the first set of wings, while the other ribs formed six small legs. Alfred's eyes glowed an iridescent color and he let out a long howl of pain, his legs binding together to form a segmented abdomen. With a loud rattle, the wings began to flap, pushing Alfred into the air with intense speed and agility. The remnant of his son hovered above him, transformed into some sort of flying creature.  
  
A dragonfly.  
  
'Kill him, Brother,' Alexia - no, Beatrice - commanded, her voice abrasive. Alexander could feel the heat radiating from her body in sweltering waves, and searing flames began to lick up the side of his clothing and onto his skin. He tried to escape her vice-like grip, but she held him firmly in place, her hands burning through his jacket and leaving large, bubbling blisters on his shoulders.  
  
'Yes, Sister,' Alfred responded monotonously, and without another word, the airborne insect swooped in. Baring the sharp fangs of a wolf, he dove into Alexander's chest, and the panicked man felt himself make brutal contact with his smoldering daughter. Alexander closed his eyes in terror...and saw only black after that.  
  
He could hear Beatrice's voice in the darkness of the dream, aggressive but soothing at the same time. The tone carried many conflicting emotions: retribution and pity, satisfaction and remorse, love and hate.  
  
'You will suffer for what you've done, Alexander.' *  
  
That's when he would wake up, his mouth rounded in a silent scream, his skin still burning from the flames. He would rush like a madman into the master bathroom and splash cold water on his face, certain that his cheeks would be reddened and marred from the blaze and that his hair would smell of charred flesh. After a few minutes of continuous soaking and inspecting his face in the mirror, his disbelieving eyes would return to their former icy glaze, and he would shake his head in disgust.  
  
The dream always ended in that manner; with Beatrice's ominous words echoing in his ears even after sleep had left him. Alexander had confided in Harman regarding the dreams, explaining every grave detail to the butler's listening ears. Harman, being the superstitious man that he is, became deathly pale, the blood draining from his face.  
  
"It's Beatrice's spirit, and she seeks revenge even in your dreams," Harman countered, his hands locked firmly at the small of his back and his eyes twitching nervously. "I fear that she still exists in this mansion and will be making trouble for us. I have heard many unusual sounds; low, guttural moans of the undead. She is very displeased by our actions."  
  
Alexander had forced a good-natured laugh and nonchalantly clapped a hand over the butler's shoulder. "Harman, if that woman is still lurking about even in death, we'll have to have an exorcism to get rid of her. She always was perseverant. Besides, I believe that it all ties into the timeframe that we are in. With the twins' birthday drawing near and the newest additions to my research projects, I think that I am overworking myself. Or it could have been the pot roast that you cooked for dinner."  
  
The butler had nodded mechanically, not amused by his master making light of the subject, before stalking out of the room stiffly. Alexander had almost regretted telling Harman about his dreams, as since that time, the man had been performing odd tasks to "safeguard" the house: spreading sea salt, lighting white candles, attaching crucifixes to a few of the walls, and other preposterous rituals to ward off evil spirits.  
  
However, Alexander couldn't explain the horrendous dreams either. He didn't really believe the fabricated explanation that he'd created in an attempt to appease Harman, but he didn't think that Beatrice's ghost had rose from the grave to irritate him in his sleep. Something wasn't right, but he couldn't put his finger on what the problem might be. He promised himself that next time Veronica and he spoke, he'd bring up his nightmares and see if she could shed some light on the strange visions.  
  
His thoughts were interrupted when he heard the door to the cemetery creak on its hinges and latch softly, and he wheeled his head around in time to see the outline of a petite Alexia hovering in the shadows. She stepped briskly onto the lawn, a bundle of white daisies tucked neatly in the crook of her elbow. Her lavender gown grazed the blades of grass, bending them backwards with a soft rush.  
  
"Hello Father. I finished my lessons already, so I thought I would come and place flowers on the gravestones," Alexia spoke, her voice child- like and sophisticated at the same time.  
  
"Very good." Alexander approached her and patted her head, gently smoothing out the unruly strands of golden hair that had come loose from her barrette. The way the blond locks of hair circled her rosy cheeks reminded him of his dreams, and staring into the innocent eyes of his daughter didn't seem to quell the uneasy feeling flitting in the pit of his stomach. "How is Alfred coming along?"  
  
Alexia frowned slightly, her rose-colored lips pouted. "He isn't doing very well, Father. He is still stuck on fraction-decimal conversions. I tried to help him, but he refuses, saying that he wants to do it on his own." Her delicate shoulders shrugged, causing her gown to rustle beneath her, and her blonde brows knitted together thoughtfully. "I think he is mad because I am nearly five lessons ahead of him."  
  
Alexander smiled, although his eyes carried a cold chill and his heart still felt lodged in his chest. "I will speak with him about it tonight," he responded coolly. "So, my Queen Alexia, how does it feel to be three years old? It seems that time has flown by."  
  
She tilted her head to one side, her aristocratic chin angled, and her ocean-blue eyes emotionless. Alexander thought that the pose caused her to look much older than her years, almost the way that she'd looked in his nightmares; her facial features reminded him very much of Beatrice. For a long moment, she stood in silence, seemingly preoccupied.  
  
"It is good and bad, as all of my birthdays are. I am happy to have aged another year, but this time also makes me think of Mother's death," she replied, forced indifference in her voice. "I'm sure you understand, Father." She gently brushed his hand from her head and started walking leisurely towards the far corner lot, the daisies bunched snugly in her tiny hand.  
  
Alexander felt his throat constrict and his palms begin to sweat. Her voice had carried a tone that was almost one of accusation, although that couldn't possibly be true. He reasoned with himself, assuring his mind that he was overlapping his children's innocuous behavior with the malevolent intent of the two beings in his dreams. As if confirming his deductions, Alexia looked over at him with adoring eyes and waved at him cheerfully, requesting that he join her at her mother's grave. Adjusting the buttons on his suit nonchalantly, he followed her to Beatrice's plot and watched her plop down in the grass, dirt clinging to the soft fabric of her dress.  
  
"Do you think Mother would like these daises? I picked them out of the greenhouse just for her," Alexia beamed, painstakingly smoothing each ivory petal before placing them on the mound of dirt. The artificial rays of sunlight bounced off of her hair, causing it to sparkle like spun gold.  
  
Alexander squatted down, pulling up the pant legs of his suit, and squinted towards the headstone of his deceased lover. "Of course she would. Your mother's favorite flowers were daisies. Did you know that?"  
  
"She told me that!" Alexia exclaimed, clapping her hands together gleefully. She rose to her knees and began to spread the bunch of daisies along the length of the rectangular plot, perfectly spacing them apart. Using her fingertip, she shoveled out a small hollow in the earth, placed one of the daisy's stems inside, and covered the remaining space with more dirt. "The daisy looks like it's growing out of the ground, doesn't it?"  
  
Alexander quirked a brow, his lips set into an unsure frown. He leaned in closer to his oblivious daughter and brushed away a glob of dirt resting in the folds of her gown. "Alexia, your mother is dead. She couldn't have told you that. Are you sure that you didn't overhear Harman or me talking about it?"  
  
Alexia giggled, sound especially youthful. Seeming satisfied with her artwork, she seated herself and carelessly plucked a blade of grass from the earth, peeling the green strip into insignificant pieces. She wadded them up into a large, green ball and rolled it between her palms, coloring her hands a light shade of lime. "Oh, Father. Mother told me that you'd say that. She tells me many things!"  
  
"How does she talk to you?" Alexander inquired, routinely clearing his throat. The burning sensation in his lungs...he could almost feel it again. "Does she talk to you in your room?"  
  
Alexia shook her head, discarding the vegetation ball and choosing a new blade of grass. "No, she visits me in my dreams. She tells me that she is very proud of how smart I am and that she misses me." Wiping her stained hands on her dress, she began to carefully study her blurred reflection in Beatrice's shining headstone, seeming to have already lost interest in the subject.  
  
"What does your mother tell you?" Alexander pressed. Perhaps he was over-exaggerating, as Alexia had always had a more than healthy imagination. Even so, he couldn't make that burning feeling go away; in fact, it had begun to work its way through his trachea.  
  
Alexia turned her attention back to him and looked at him thoughtfully, her eyes lighting up as if remembering a faint detail. "I forgot! She told me a few nights ago that she visits you in your dreams, too. She said that she wants you to know what will fruit from all of your hard work, although I don't really know what she meant. Does she give you nice dreams about Alfred and me?"  
  
Alexander felt nauseous, and he clenched his fists together until his nails dug into his palm. He pasted a pleased smile on his face, although he felt the smoldering heat not just in his lungs, but throughout his whole body. He stood, folding his arms over his chest in an attempt to keep his body from quivering.  
  
"Of course, Alexia. You're mother gives me wonderful dreams about Alfred and you," he replied, chuckling tensely. "In them, you're the smartest girl in the world!"  
  
Alexia lay on her back, the plush lawn supporting her like a pillow. She laughed, her eyes catching some of the beams from the artificial sun. "Father, you're so silly. Mother doesn't really come to you in your dreams, does she? You're just saying that so I don't feel funny about having Mother talk to me, right?"  
  
"Maybe so, but I know that you'll grow up to be a wonderful woman. Alfred and you will be at the top, and everyone will listen to you because you're so intelligent. Now, I have to get going. It's getting late and I have a lot of paperwork I need to do. Don't stay out here much longer. You will have time to complete some of the next lesson before it is time for dinner," Alexander commanded, turning so that he didn't have to look at his daughter anymore. He didn't await a response, but began a swift walk towards the cemetery doors.  
  
"Alright!" Alexia called after him, but he was already through the exit. She shrugged, confused by her father's bizarre response to her dreams. Maybe he thought that she was weird, but she had overheard him talking to Lady Veronica in this cemetery many times before. Peering into the stone that marked her mother's final resting place, she neatly trimmed away the overgrown weeds that choked the group of daises sprawled across the mount. "Why do you think Father's acting so peculiar, Mother?" she inquired aloud, more to herself than anyone else.  
  
Alexia's eyes flew open in surprise when she heard a soft response, a voice that gently resounded in her mind.  
  
'You'll find out in due time, my love.'  
  
Alexia dropped the weeds onto the ground and frantically searched the cemetery grounds for the person whose voice she'd heard, but she was alone. She looked at her mother's headstone once more, studying it carefully for some sort of sign. Only her shocked features stared back at her, distorted from the rock beneath the glaze. Rising to her knees, she peered closer, looking at her face as if looking in a mirror. The contorted features seemed to melt together, and a different, more adult face appeared - the face of her Mother.  
  
Alexia screeched in terror, jumping from her kneeled position and running from the cemetery. She didn't stop screaming until she'd entered the confines of the mansion, closed the door behind her, and locked it securely. Alexander was there in seconds, Harman and Alfred following close behind him, and all three of them questioned her at once.  
  
"I saw Mother's face! In her headstone! It was her, I know it!" Alexia shouted, her lips trembling. Alexander picked up her shaking body, exchanging looks with Harman. The butler nodded knowingly and placed an arm over Alfred's shoulders, escorting the bewildered boy towards the door. The male twin turned to look at his sister, afraid to leave her alone, but Harman dutifully shuffled him through the exit beyond earshot.  
  
"Calm down, Alexia. You're just imagining things. Our conversation must have worked you up," Alexander cooed, brushing away long strands of hair from her tear-streaked face. After a few minutes, the frightened girl quieted, her cries becoming little more than sniffles.  
  
"You can put me down now. I think I'm alright," she offered, her voice still wavering. Alexander obliged, placing her on her feet and smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress. She seemed on the verge of tears again, but stubbornly held them back. "I believe that you were right, Father. I was just imagining things, trying to make Mother there when she isn't. I don't want to see her in my dreams or talk to her ever again."  
  
"Perhaps that is for the best," Alexander offered, his heart still pounding in his chest. "Sometimes people see what they want to see, and it isn't a good thing. Put your mind elsewhere, such as your studies, and you'll find that the feelings will go away. I promise you that." He smiled slightly, taking her small hand in his. "Now, I was just about to call you. We're ready to have Alfred and your birthday party. Harman has made his famous coconut cake, and I have some gifts for you. Are you ready to join us?"  
  
"I think so," Alexia sniffled, taking in deep breathes.  
  
"Good. Go wash up in the bathroom and join us in the dining hall," Alexander insisted, pushing her back slightly to get her moving. As an added precaution, he gave her instructions, his face solemn and grave. "And Alexia, I would prefer it if you wouldn't mention this incident to your brother. He is not as mature as you are, and it would probably only scare him."  
  
Alexia appeared puzzled for a moment, but nodded her affirmation. "Yes, Father. I will not say a word." With that, she hurried from the room, the door slamming behind her.  
  
Alexander let out a whoosh of breath, his greatest fears realized. What if Beatrice had somehow visited Alexia and informed her of their true birth? Or that he was responsible for her death? What would the children do?  
  
He shook his head, telling himself to be practical. The girl had just seen what she thought to be the face of her mother in a gravestone; she was clearly imaginative. Besides, if Beatrice had found a way to communicate with her daughter, Alexia would have questioned him immediately. He was overestimating Beatrice, even in her death. The twins could never find out the truth, and it would be his duty to make sure that it didn't occur. All of the papers regarding his genetic research, their birth, and Beatrice's life would be locked away in his secret underground study, the one that only he and Harman knew of, and he would make it nearly impossible for them to have knowledge of the location. He would split the inconspicuous key to the hidden study between the three of them, a key that didn't appear to be one. How he'd set it up, he wasn't yet sure, but he'd come up with a fool-proof way before his curious children stumbled upon something. Veronica would help him think of a way; he would visit her when the children went to bed.  
  
Adjusting his disheveled hair, he marched confidently towards the dining room, feeling secure in his plans. Come hell or high water, the children would never know the secrets that he lived with. The consequences would be disastrous.  
  
________________________  
  
Alexia silently watched her father's steps from the partially open doorway, her shallow breathing quiet and discreet. She had overheard him mumbling mindlessly, and his features had appeared distraught. Something was troubling him, and his eyes seemed almost sad. She hoped that it wasn't the fact that she'd seen her mother's face that had upset him; he must have loved her mother very much and it probably pained him to be reminded of her death. Wiping the chilly water from her cheeks, she sighed, wishing that her father was happy. She promised herself that she would work extra hard at her studies; that always seemed to make him cheerful.  
  
She never saw, heard, or dreamt of her mother again. 


	5. Seeds of Hate

December 27, 1998  
  
From a young age, I knew that my calling in life was to study every aspect of the insect world; their beautiful, graceful forms, their mass population, and their instinct to survive are aspects that humans attempt to replicate but manage to degrade miserably.  
  
I was approximately three or four years old when I expressed to Father that my dream was to become a world-renowned entomologist; yet, he seemed less interested in my aspirations and ever more adamant that I continue studying genetics, chemistry, and virology. His blatant disregard for my ambitions impeded my personal goals, causing me to succumb to his ideologies until his dreams became my dreams. Although I never completely ignored my insect research, I placed it on the back-burner to accommodate his wishes. Only many years later did I realize that all of these subjects could be intertwined to form an altogether more powerful discipline, and thus the T- Veronica virus was born.  
  
Nevertheless, the secrets of the T-Veronica virus will never be revealed to ill-bred mortals, as none of them could comprehend the complexity of it. William Birkin was unsuccessful, much as Albert Wesker will soon be. The information will be locked into my mind (as I will soon destroy any remaining research in paper form), and once the virus is spread throughout the world, no one will question its origin or characteristics. Every pathetic human will accept that it is there, and that they are better for it.  
  
-Alexia Ashford  
  
________________________  
  
September 30, 1974  
  
This is the first time that I have had the chance to write in the journal that Father presented me for my birthday. He said that all geniuses should take accurate notes of their research so that successes and errors can be documented for further use. I think that it is a little silly, so I decided to make it a personal diary. I'll never tell him, though, or he might become angry and take it away.  
  
Since my birthday in May, there have been a lot of bizarre things going on. A month or so ago, I overheard Father talking with Harman about Alfred and me. Father was explaining that he believed I needed a female role model in my life. (I think that seeing my mother in her gravestone had something to do with that decision.) Harman seemed to agree, nodding so fervently that I thought his head might fall off and roll down the dining room table. He quickly stated that a nanny might be helpful when Father was busy with his paperwork. Father approved, commenting that some man (I can't seem to remember his name) was coming to visit, and that a nanny might help keep us in line.  
  
I didn't really think that much would come of the discussion that I eavesdropped on, but within a week, Matilda arrived. Father called Alfred and me to the main hall to greet her, and from the moment I saw her waltz in, I knew that I would not like her. She just looked mean, although Father seemed to adore her. He complimented her on her hairstyle (a braid that didn't appear too fancy in my opinion) and invited her to get acquainted with us while he went to fetch Harman. She smiled to him sweetly and called him "my Lord" more times than I could count. When the door slammed behind Father, she turned to us and her loving expression disappeared. She whispered to us that she was going to "teach our snobby asses a lesson".  
  
From that day on, she has tormented Alfred and me on any occasion that she can get. She makes us wake up at five o'clock in the morning every day, get us dressed, and prepares breakfast. As soon as we are done, she shuts us in our rooms with our lessons until lunch is ready. Instead of letting us go to the dining table to eat, she brings the food on trays to my room and yells at Alfred to come in and eat. After we eat what she deems to be enough, she orders Alfred to go back to his room and study until she calls for dinner. For the first time of the day, we get to visit with Father over the dinner table, and he always inquires about whether we like Matilda. Although I'd like to tell him the truth, that stupid woman warned us that if we told Father that we didn't like her, she would burn our favorite toys. So instead, Alfred and I just keep quiet about it.  
  
I really don't like her at all. I think I could possibly hate her! I know that hating someone is a sin, but I think that God would understand if he had to put up with a mean woman like Matilda.  
  
Recently, I have been studying insects in my lessons. All of them intrigue me, and I think that I have decided to build an ant farm! Father said that he would order one for me tomorrow, so I can't wait for it to arrive. I also decided that I want to decorate my room in dragonflies, but Father was angry when I told him that. He said that dragonflies were not pretty, and that I should have beautiful things in my room. I disagreed with him, assuring him that they are very elegant and graceful creatures, but he frowned and told me that he would not allow me to have anything with dragonflies on it in my room. I pouted, of course, until he called me a spoiled brat and marched off. I'm still not sure what got him so upset.  
  
In any case, I need to go to sleep before Matilda sees that I am still awake.  
  
-Alexia Ashford  
  
________________________  
  
Alexia tucked the pen inside the ivory pages and silently closed the diary, careful not to make much of a rustle. Placing her bare feet on the cool hardwood floor, she tiptoed to her dresser and eased open the top drawer, covering the leather binding with pairs of socks and underwear. After five minutes of meticulous arranging, she felt satisfied with the inconspicuous hiding place and made her way back to the comfort of her frilly canopy bed.  
  
Climbing beneath the soft pink bedcovers, she puffed out the white pillar candle and watched the shadows disappear in the total darkness. She waved her petite hand in front of her face, suddenly wishing that the purging light of the candle was still burning. It was too dark and much too quiet. Not even the monotonous clanging of machinery in the factory was heard tonight, and she found herself missing the soothing metallic drones that had eased her into sleep night after night. Despite the fact that Alfred was across the hall and Matilda was down two rooms, she had the disturbing feeling of being utterly alone.  
  
The Antarctic mansion had that affect on her, more so in the past few weeks - no visitors, no neighbors, no one. She'd never ventured beyond this place that she endearingly called home; her father had sternly commanded them never to go further than the carousel that decorated the outer courts, insisting that the factory area was very dangerous and not for children. From her bedroom window, she had seen some of the workers hauling large barrels into the facility, and they all had looked dirty and scary. Alfred was more curious about who or what lay beyond the iron doors, and more times than once, he had tried to urge Alexia to sneak in when no one was looking, but the girl had decided that it couldn't be anything of much importance. It was a factory; there wasn't anything fascinating about that. Alfred had managed a high-pitched giggled and called her a coward, insisting that she wouldn't get into trouble. She remembered his exact words clearly:  
  
"You have always been Father's favorite. He'd probably punish me instead."  
  
Then he'd sneered at her, her brother's features contorted vehemently in a way that she had never witnessed before. The outward display of emotion had both amused and frightened her, although she had been careful to cast off the last emotion with a forced coolness. Alexia had turned to look at him, mock merriment and a flicker of disdain dancing in her eyes, and he had blushed furiously before turning on his heels towards the exit. Although his envy had upset her, Alexia did her best to brush off her brother's odd behavior; being the secondary child, the one less doted on, surely had caused the surge of jealousy that Alfred had felt. She knew that her brother loved her dearly, and the words coming from his mouth had been aimed at their father, not her. The next day, Alfred had been contrite, asking her if she wanted his dessert. Alexia had smiled at him, silently assuring him that all was forgiven. He had returned the smile, the squabble forgotten.  
  
Alexia rolled over in her bed, the springs squeaking slightly as she shifted and rearranged her pillows. Closing her eyes to the darkness, her mind raced through the events that had transpired since Matilda had arrived. The God-awful woman had been a pain in the twins' sides for weeks now, and Alexia felt that she was at her wits end. Her father was of no help; he seemed utterly oblivious to Matilda's dual-sided behavior and complimented her many times a day. The woman drank it up as if his flattery was an oasis in a desert, and then she would roll her tongue over her teeth and give the children a smug, pointed look that made Alexia's blood boil.  
  
Even now, Alexia could feel the anger flooding her body like a poison, making her stomach churn and her eyes burn with frustrated unshed tears. Was her father absolutely blind? How could he not see that the woman was just waiting for an opportune time? Clenching her fists, she looked over at the clock. 2:49 AM. That woman would be in her room in a matter of hours, ripping Alexia from her covers and nagging about how lazy the child was. God, she hated Matilda.  
  
'You could kill her.'  
  
The voice caused Alexia to sit up straight in her bed, one of her plush pillows falling to the carpeted floor with an indiscernible thunk. Alexia's head swiveled from side to side, her blonde locks flying about her face and her wide eyes searching the darkness for the speaker.  
  
"Who's there? Mother?" Alexia inquired, her voice quivering. With shaking hands, she fumbled about her nightstand, searching for the small book of matches that she kept near her candle. Locating them, she tore one from the book and struck it, the small flame doing little to light the large bedroom. Dark smoke rose to the ceiling as the thin slice of wood burned quickly, eating its way down the dry stick until the heat singed her delicate fingers. Groaning, she shook the match until it was extinguished, then struck another to light the pillar candle atop her nightstand. The room brightened twofold, but the light could not help her locate the origin of the voice that she had heard. Her back arrow straight and her heart hammering in her chest, she pulled the covers around her quaking body and called out again. "Come out. I know that someone is there..."  
  
No response.  
  
Alexia refused to blink, the bright blue orbs combing over every crevice and corner of the half-lit room. Someone had spoken to her, a voice that had been clear, cool, and genderless. And the words...the cruel, heartless sentence had been delivered without a shred of hesitation or remorse: 'You could kill her.'  
  
Alexia shivered involuntarily, afraid of the voice speaking again. It was not her mother's voice this time. Although she had not spoken to her mother since the incident in the cemetery, Alexia knew that the voice belonged to someone else. Her mother had always been so kind; she had never said frightening things like that. This voice was different and much angrier.  
  
Sleep. She needed to sleep and remove this bizarre situation from her mind. That was the best course of action now, she assured herself. She could think over the voice tomorrow, when her mind was less cloudy and full of fear. Hesitantly, she leaned down to retrieve her fallen pillow, her fingers barely grazing the soft pink exterior. Grumbling to herself, she strained her arm towards the feather-filled bag, reaching and stretching her fingertips, inwardly refusing to leave the safety of her bed. 'Monsters always get people when they put their feet on the floor,' her mind warned. With a final stretch that cramped her arm, she managing a firm grip on the pillowcase and drew it towards her, but the sound of footsteps making their way hurriedly down the hall caused her to freeze.  
  
Alexia hardly had a moment to be afraid; Matilda burst through the bedroom door with a rush, the flickering candlelight playing over her livid features and tingeing her face a crimson color. The devil incarnate.  
  
"You spoiled brat." Matilda marched purposefully to Alexia's bed, the large white nightgown blowing about her as if possessed. "You should have been asleep hours ago," she commanded, her voice high-pitched with anger.  
  
"I...had a nightmare," Alexia lied. "I was frightened."  
  
Matilda picked up the pillow and threw it onto the bed forcefully, barely missing the child's head. "I don't believe a word of it. You made enough noise to wake me from my sleep."  
  
"I'm sorry," Alexia spoke, but something had snaked its way into her voice. Hateful amusement. Although Alexia tried to repress it, that 'something' seemed to take control of her body.  
  
'You hate her, don't you?' whispered the voice.  
  
"I doubt that one bit," Matilda nagged, kneeling to extinguish the candle with a haughty breath. The room was once again plunged into total blackness. The nanny's body disappeared along with the accompanying shadows, but her voice continued. "It's such a shame, too. I was having such a wonderful dream about your father. I'd convinced him to ship the two of you to military school, and he and I married." Her voice held sadistic glee as the sound of footsteps retreated towards the door. Alexia could almost imagine the nanny's tongue rolling over her teeth as she grinned in amusement.  
  
'You are more powerful than she is. She is nothing.'  
  
The voice only echoed in the child's ears, somehow lost in the whirlwind of emotions that were flooding Alexia's body. Yet it was there, pointed and matter-of-fact, speaking in many tones and sentences. Alexia felt an overwhelming sense of hatred for the red-headed woman spread throughout her, and her body felt as if set on fire. Words blasted into her skull, enticing her to speak them, promising that all would be well if she gave in. Becoming subjugated to the suggestions, she responded, her tone full of bitterness and anger. "Enjoy your dreams. You don't dream when you're dead."  
  
"What was that?!" Matilda squealed unbelievably, and Alexia felt the nanny's presence near her bed again. The child could almost envision Matilda's animated motions and enraged green eyes. "You say that again, you little bitch!"  
  
'She is laughable.'  
  
As if mocking the woman, Alexia found herself giggling uncontrollably, unable to stop. It was almost as if someone was tickling her ribs, and although she knew that her retort had been disrespectful and wrong, that 'something' in her head told her that it was right. The woman had deserved every word, it cooed. She laughed harder, the guttural sound echoing from the walls and meeting her surprised ears. Tears began to stream freely down her face as the laughter continued, making her sides hurt.  
  
Matilda felt a cold chill travel down her spine and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end; something wasn't right. Although she wanted nothing more than to strike the child into silence, the creepy laughter shook her to the bone. "Shut up!" Matilda whispered harshly. "I said shut up!" Alexia didn't stop; if nothing else, her incessant laughter grew louder. Matilda covered her ears with the palms of her hands, warning the child that her father would be called if she didn't cease. The nanny could barely hear her words over Alexia's amused giggle.  
  
'That is enough. Stop.'  
  
As suddenly as she had started, Alexia laughter halted. Only the sound of shallow breathing resonated from the little girl, and the pitch- black room seemed eerily quiet, almost evil. Matilda, jarred, spoke loudly, forcing her voice to carry security that she did not feel. "You will pay for this tomorrow, I assure you."  
  
Not a sound in response. Matilda quaked, despite her best efforts at controlling the fear that rolled from her body in waves. Reaching into the pockets of her nightgown, she withdrew a book of matches and lit one with trembling hands. The light sparked and melded with the match, creating a small flame that didn't quell the unnatural feeling that hung heavily in the room.  
  
The light reflected in Alexia's eyes as she stared at the nanny, her features twisted in a bizarre grin. She looked older than her years, the youthful, cherub-like face lost in the dancing flame of the match. "I suggest you leave my room before I lose my patience."  
  
Before Matilda could reply, the match burned out, and the nanny cursed loudly at the burning sensation around her thumb and forefinger. As she moved to light another, the young girl's voice spoke up, loud and chilling.  
  
"Go back to your dreams. Enjoy them while you have the opportunity."  
  
Matilda shivered and felt a new wave of fear push through her body. Impulsively, she turned, her bare feet making loud patters across the hardwood floor as she fled the child's bedroom.  
  
'It feels good to know that she fears you, doesn't it?'  
  
Alexia's face was locked in a cruel smile. Her body felt so drained, but her mind rushed with a sort of power that she had never felt before. The nanny had FEARED her; she was able to almost taste the emotion radiating from Matilda. The feeling made her giddy, and when she heard Matilda's door slam shut and lock, she couldn't help but grin wider.  
  
________________________  
  
"You actually said that to her? What's possessed you, sister?" Alfred questioned, his eyes wide.  
  
Alexia sat on one of the carousel horses, her eyes downcast. She wished that she had a logical explanation for her brother, but nothing seemed to make much sense; her uncharacteristic behavior, the strange voices that seemed to persuade her - almost taunt her - to say the evil things she had. All day, she'd made herself believe that the voice was just a response to the anger that she felt, but she couldn't convince herself. It had been too REAL. "I don't know what to tell you, Alfred. Something came over me. It was if I became another person."  
  
The carousel made circle after circle, playing a low melody as it did so. Alfred made a curious noise, his small form straddling the other brightly-painted horse. His fingers tapped the horse's head in a melody that he could hear. "I suspected that something was awry when Matilda insisted that I be the one to wake you and bring you your meals. Have you even spoken to the woman today?"  
  
The female twin shook her head, her mind lost in a state of confusion. "No, I haven't seen her once." Trying to lighten the mood a bit, Alexia chuckled softly. "I must have frightened her quite a bit. She even let us come out to play today."  
  
Alfred grinned, but it didn't hold much amusement. He was proud of his sister for standing up to the hag, but at the same time, the attitude did not seem to match his twin at all. She was usually so mild-mannered and calm. "Do not worry about it, sister. Someone had to put the wretch in her place."  
  
Alexia hummed her concurrence, but she didn't know how much she agreed with her brother's statement. Although she hated the nanny with everything that was in her, part of her mind felt guilt for the words that she had spoken. "Perhaps the things I said were out of line."  
  
"Perhaps," Alfred spoke with finality, and a long, thick silence hung in the air. The toy horses continued their feigned gallop in an endless circle, seeming intense on reaching their destination.  
  
Alexia could no longer stand the quiet. She had to explain her actions somehow, if only to make herself feel better. "I went to the cemetery a few days ago. I asked Lady Veronica to give me a sign as to what I am supposed to do."  
  
"Maybe she was listening to you," Alfred said, his voice unconvinced. He shrugged his small shoulders, the gray school uniform bunching at his sides.  
  
"Maybe," Alexia mumbled. "You know, Alfred, the feeling that I had when I told Matilda those things; it was the strangest feeling that I have ever felt. Possibly the most wonderful one."  
  
"What do you mean?" the male twin inquired, his pale-colored eyebrows knitting together in thought.  
  
"It was thrilling to know that she was afraid of me. I imagine that it is what God must feel when Satan genuflects before him," Alexia continued, the words flowing from her mouth like a river.  
  
Alfred made a face, his upper lip curling into a snarl. "Don't you think that sounds a bit blasphemous?"  
  
"Maybe you're right, brother, but that is the best way that I can describe it. I knew that she was afraid of me, and it was...nice." Alexia made an effort of adjusting the buttons of her gray blazer.  
  
"Hrmph. I suppose," Alfred responded, resting his elbow on the hard plastic of the horse's hair. "In any case, it's dinner time. We should return to the mansion."  
  
"Indeed."  
  
________________________  
  
"Children, I was beginning to wonder what had become of you," Alexander teased, rising from the wooden chair at the head of the dining room table. Matilda sat quietly to his right, unmoving, and fumbled with her cloth napkin. She did not look up when the children entered.  
  
"I'm sorry, Father," Alexia spoke, a nervous edge creeping into her voice. "Alfred and I lost track of time while playing. Excuse our tardiness."  
  
"Of course. Although, I cannot guarantee that your food will be warm." Alexander sat again, the chair creaking beneath his weight. He spread his hand outward, waving it over the huge spread of food that was sprawled across the tabletop. "Harman has cooked us a wonderful dinner to mark the special occasion."  
  
"Special occasion?" Alfred inquired as he took a seat across from Matilda. He shared a look with his sister as she rested in the chair next to him.  
  
Alexander beamed, rather pleased with himself. He forked a piece of roasted potato and brought it to his mouth, chewing it thoroughly and wiping his mouth with a napkin before speaking. "I wanted to wait until dinner to announce the news." Keeping the children in suspense, he sipped red wine from his goblet and again drew a napkin over his lips.  
  
"Well, what is it, Father?" Alexia asked impatiently. Butterflies tickled the inside of her stomach, making her feel slightly nauseous.  
  
Alexander seemed to enjoy the look of expectancy on his children's faces, but he finally conceded. "You children have done very well these past few weeks, and I think that you know who we have to thank for that." Alexander looked lovingly in Matilda's direction, but the nanny was still enthralled with her napkin.  
  
Alexia winced. She knew what was coming next; she could feel it.  
  
"Children, I feel that having a female figure in your life has made this family whole. In light of this, I have asked Matilda to be my wife."  
  
Despite her expectancy, Alexia was still floored by the news. Even Alfred seemed to be in a sort of shock, his face paling. Words bubbled up from Alexia's stomach, words that the sweet little child would have never thought of saying before. "But, Father! She is a common girl! You're going to marry the nanny? That will disgrace the Ashford name!"  
  
Alexander visibly blanched, the words that angrily spewed from his daughter's mouth catching him off-guard. "Alexia Veronica Ashford! You will not say such things! Do you know how horribly arrogant you sound?"  
  
Alexia felt as if she was running out of options. Matilda's dream had been correct; she would marry Alexander and the twins would be shipped off to some boarding school. A sheen of tears clouded Alexia's vision, and her voice trembled as she spoke. "You did not even think of consulting us?! Do you care nothing for our feelings?"  
  
Alexander's face grew a bright, angry red. "That is enough, young lady! This matter is not open for discussion!" He slammed his fist on the table, causing the delicate china to tinkle beneath the tabletop. "You and your brother will retire to your room. I do not want to see your face for the remainder of the evening!"  
  
"As you wish!" Alexia screamed. Throwing back her chair, she marched towards the dining room door and left. Alfred looked confused and hurt, but he followed his sister dutifully.  
  
Matilda watched the children leave the room and looked at the visibly shaken Alexander. Her voice was like velvet when she addressed him. "Do not be angry with them, my Lord. I am sure that Alexia feels as if you are betraying her mother's memory by marrying another. Surely she will open up to the idea in time."  
  
Alexander said nothing.  
  
Matilda leaned her head down, kissing the back of Alexander's hand and resting her cheek against it. Long red hair covered the nanny's face, hiding the wicked smile that played over her lips, the tongue that slowly drew across perfect, white teeth.  
  
________________________  
  
Alfred found his sister sitting starkly in her bed, seething with rage. "May I come in?" When Alexia didn't acknowledge his request, he entered, taking a seat next to her. "Sister, your actions worry me. You have not been yourself."  
  
Alexia spoke harshly through gritted teeth, her fists clenching and unclenching. "Alfred, you know as well as I do what will become of us if Father takes that woman as his wife."  
  
Alfred patted his sister's hand lovingly, trying to soothe her. His mind raced for something - anything - that would placate her. "Alexia, if it makes you feel any better, I do believe Matilda comes from a noble family. Her marrying Father will not tarnish the Ashford name."  
  
"It is not that!" Alexia screamed hatefully, her eyes livid. "She will see to it that we are removed from this mansion. She has told me as much!"  
  
"Father would never allow that," Alfred spoke, although there was little conviction in his voice.  
  
Alexia shot her brother an angry glare. "For godssakes, Alfred, stop being so damn naïve! Once she becomes Father's paramour, our life is over."  
  
Alfred felt infuriated. "Sister, I love you and I do not want to see you upset, but there is not much that we can do. We have no say-so over what Father does."  
  
Alexia was silent for a moment, blonde strands hanging in her face and concealing her features. After a moment, she looked up at her brother, tears streaming down her porcelain face.  
  
Alfred winced; he did not want to see his sister cry. Lovingly, he wiped away her tears with the back of his forefinger and took her hand in his. "Please do not cry, Alexia. It pains me to see you so disturbed."  
  
"There is something that we can do," Alexia whispered, squeezing her brother's hand softly. "It is the only thing that we can do."  
  
"What do you suggest?" Alfred asked, his heart breaking. "I will do all that I can to ensure your happiness."  
  
Alexia's eyes pleaded with her brother silently. "We will do what must be done. We will kill her."  
  
________________________  
  
October 1, 1974  
  
My Dearest Ancestor, Veronica Ashford,  
  
I have been unfaithful to your memory. Forgive me.  
  
I no longer hear your voice, and your thoughts are becoming less frequent. The weeks have been so difficult. Is it because I have grown to love another?  
  
I am growing old, and I only wish to be happy. The longer I am away from you, the harder it becomes to go on. I find temporary solace in the arms of this woman, but it does not compare to the feeling I have when I know that you are there.  
  
She wished to stay the night in my room tonight, but I refused. I refused because I wish to show you that I could never love another the way that I love you. Do you not see the sacrifice that I have made for you, my dear Veronica? Why do you continue to withhold your presence?  
  
How can I atone for this? How can I make you come back to me?  
  
I know that you are still in this place. I can feel you. But you are not with me; you have chosen another. WHY?  
  
No one could love or understand you the way that I do. I am your loyal servant.  
  
Beatrice still haunts me. She will never forgive me. She plants seeds of hate in the children. I feel as if I am losing my mind.  
  
Without you, I shall die. Do not leave me, Veronica. 


	6. And They Slept Peacefully

(A/N: Please note the rating, especially for this chapter, as there is some violence. A special thanks to VisionsOfMalice, who has helped me keep the drive to continue this story. Also, thank you to BloodRaven1, HelloCaptain, and PrincessMercury for sticking by this story from the beginning and reviewing, despite the slow updates. Last but definitely not least, thanks to Shakahnna, C&T, and NickyWesker for deciding to read this weird little piece and letting me know what you think. I've seemed to regain some of my creative thought...so hopefully, the next update won't take as long.)  
  
December 27, 1998  
  
Since I have emerged from cryogenic slumber, my mind has been a whirlwind of thoughts and memories. It is as if each one, no matter how great or small, is trying to thrust to the forefront of my consciousness, insisting that I not overlook any detail.  
  
It makes me feel abandoned.  
  
I realize how vulnerable I sound, and I loathe it. Disclosing such insecurity is something that I rarely do, but for some peculiar reason, the voices insist that transcribing every recollection and sentiment are of the utmost importance. Perhaps I shall torch these pages when I am finished or conceal them as my father hid his secrets. It would be rather fitting, I think.  
  
I can hear the boy above me, his voice crying out as if to access the heavens. I had expected the virus to react quickly to him, but that does not seem to be the case. Instead, he writhes in agony as his cells mutate and his muscle cramp - a righteous fate that he more than deserves. Logically speaking, I should have slaughtered him and the girl the moment I obtained them as retribution for the acts of sin that they have committed; nevertheless, when the time came to end the boy's life, I found that I could not spill his blood. Although he deserves to suffer a lengthy, excruciating death, the litheness of his body, his effeminate features...they remind me so much of my dear brother. Emotions that had been buried for so long awoke inside of me, and although I was enraged, I also felt pity for causing my brother so much pain. In the name of the Ashfords, I did to the boy as I would have done to Alfred (had he remained alive); I entrusted him with the greatest blessing that could be bestowed upon one: I injected him - a commoner - with the same strain of the T- Veronica virus that courses through my veins. The boy will be the first of my children, and I will surely give him an honored position in my court when the virus is distributed world-wide.  
  
As for the girl, I haven't the same attachment to her. Let the zombies devour her alive, for all I care. Her blood will make a fitting sacrifice to the Ashford name, and she will be a symbol of what transpires when anyone contests me. I believe that she was poisoned by the Nosferatu before disposing of him, thus termination is eminent. I hope that she experiences the torture that Alfred felt.  
  
-Alexia Ashford  
  
________________________  
  
Alexia watched the ants as the entered the ant hill, each one scrambling behind another in perfect single file. She was amazed by their speed and how much one could lift. Such practical creatures, she mused. Sighing, she turned away from her new interest and approached the long lines of books sprawled across numerous shelves. Despite her father's protests, she'd insisted on placing the ant hill in the study, and after three days of pleading, he'd relented. Alfred had laughed at her, making a comment about how she always seemed to get her way. She'd only shrugged at him and continued to feed her ants.  
  
Her brother didn't seem to have much interest in her new hobby until it was time to feed the creatures; he seemed to thoroughly enjoy that part. He had immediately offered to catch live insects from the cemetery grounds, and she'd allowed him to do so. Every afternoon, he would run into her room with a jar of bugs, shaking them around as if to irritate them, never giving her a moment's peace until she accompanied him to the glass case that housed her pets. She would watch as he'd place half-dead insects onto the dirt surface and nudge them about. He would giggle with glee when the ants filed out of their shelter and begin dismantling the helpless insect piece by piece, his eyes wide as saucers. Minutes later, when he'd seemed to have his fill of the sadistic feeding time, he'd claim that he had school work to do and wouldn't bother with the ants until the following afternoon.  
  
Alexia found his behavior a bit odd, but she had to admit, even she felt a surge of excitement when the drones marched from the hill as soldiers might, dutifully working in order to satisfy their queen. She wondered many times what it would feel like to be the Queen Ant, to know that everyone within your territory devoted their lives to your happiness and protection. It must be a grand life; everyone depending on you for their well-being.  
  
She plucked a hard cover book labeled Myrmecology from the bottom shelf and carried it to the desk. Taking a seat in the plush chair, she opened the pages and soon found what she'd been searching for. A glossy photo covered half of the page; the dark, bulky body of a queen ant. Alexia read the caption beneath the photo for the hundredth time, her lips moving as she did so.  
  
Queen Ant - Upon death, the remaining colony does not usually survive for long, as queens are seldom replaced within the ant community.  
  
There was something absolutely amazing about the photo, almost regal. Alexia wished that she could dig beneath the layers of dirt in her own ant farm in order to see the queen nestled within its tunnels; however, a dead queen resulted in a destroyed colony, and she wasn't ready to sacrifice her pets for her curiosities. Maybe in the future, she could excavate the queen, remove the old ants, and have her father purchase new ones.  
  
Alexia heard footsteps outside the hall of the study, and she looked up at the clock. 12:49 PM. She closed the book and stood, expecting Alfred to appear as scheduled, a glass jar full of ill-fated insects within his tiny hands. However, it was not her twin that appeared, but her nanny. The woman looked tired, purple circles encompassing her green eyes. She entered unceremoniously, giving the young girl a dead pan look.  
  
"It is time for lunch. Your father wishes you and your brother to join us in the dining hall." Matilda's voice was hollow, devoid of emotion. Giving Alexia a final blank look, the woman turned on her heels and stalked out of the room, her heavy footfalls echoing through the corridor.  
  
Alexia stood from the office chair and stretched her arms high over her head, smirking inwardly. Matilda had said little to her in the weeks since Alexander had announced their engagement. Even Alexander had avoided the subject, attempting to smooth over the confrontation with forced laughter and false smiles. When Matilda would try to speak at dinner, he would hold up his hand and mumble "Not now, Matilda. Not in front of the children." She would clam up, an irritated blush passing through her pale cheeks before she could regain her cool, emotionless composure. It was amusing to see her hushed, to see Alexander put the wench in her place. Alfred and Alexia would share looks and sip the hot tea from their cups, hiding their smiles.  
  
Recollecting those happy memories, Alexia walked gracefully down the hallway, her lilac dress flowing behind her. She could hear her father's boisterous laugh resonating from the downstairs dining room until it faded away, replaced by silence. 'He's trying very hard,' she thought to herself. Frowning, she descended the flight of stairs in the main hall, a cold wind escaping through the antique windows and causing her hair to tremble. Rubbing the goosebumps that appeared on her flesh, she shivered, the chilled Arctic breeze giving her the impression that she'd just passed through a ghost. The thought spooked her, and she quickly fumbled down the steps, gripping the railing to keep from falling. When she reached the entrance to the dining hall, she paused and glanced up to the stairway. All looked calm, as it always was: no screaming ghoul or rattling chains, just the wind. 'Quit being so childish,' she told herself as she pushed open the dining doors.  
  
Alexander, Matilda, and Alfred already sat at their usually places, quietly awaiting her appearance. A steaming lunch was spread over the table, growing cooler by the minute, yet Alexia took her time in arriving to her seat. Alfred, eyes pale blue, gave her a nod as she sat down, but she didn't look at him. Instead, she addressed her father, her voice a lot more confident than she felt. She felt her lips move almost involuntarily, pushing the words from her throat.  
  
"Father, I feel that we've been avoiding the issue for some time. As your children, Alfred and I have a right to know if you are adamant about marrying Matilda," she finished, avoiding her father's eyes as she placed a cream cloth napkin over her lap.  
  
The room was eerily quiet. The only sound heard was the constant tick-tick-tick of the grandfather clock pressed up against the far wall, and even it seemed too loud. Everyone seemed enthralled by the sparkling china set before them, eyes downcast as if the topic had caused them all to become deaf and mute. Even Alexander, lord of the Ashfords, seemed peculiarly dumbstruck. His lips would part, a puff of air escaping before he clamped his jaw shut.  
  
Alexia took care in perfecting the symmetry of the napkin in her lap. She had imagined that her father would be angry at her flippant words and her demand for an answer, but he seemed withdrawn...almost guilty. At last, he spoke, his voice betraying his feelings.  
  
"Yes, Alexia. Matilda and I are to be wed. I, of course, had my doubts, but I feel that this is the best situation for all of us," he spoke, his voice barely a whisper. He seemed ashamed by his admission, yet relieved at the same time. Gingerly, he placed his hand over Matilda's, squeezing it roughly. Clearing his throat as if clearing away his feelings, his voice returned to its false happiness. "Now, shall we eat? Harman will be cross if we cannot eat this food because it has chilled. Alexia, would you like some fresh bread? Alfred, please pass down that bowl of extraordinary clam chowder."  
  
Alexia didn't hear him as he carried on about how delectable the crème brulee looked, nor did she see Matilda's tongue pass over her teeth in utter satisfaction. Instead, she focused on her fingernails digging a jagged hole into cloth napkin strewn across her lap, her rage building from somewhere she hardly new existed. That voice...the one that she had heard before. It was goading her to be angry, angry at Matilda and at her father.  
  
'She will take him away from us.'  
  
'Do you want that woman ruling the Ashford children?'  
  
'She is vile, just like your pathetic father.'  
  
Alexia's stomach felt queasy as the pressure inside her head bombarded her thoughts, making it difficult to even breathe. The taunting voice would not leave her, and it seemed to enjoy the torture it was inflicting. She clinched her tiny fists, knuckles white, inwardly commanding the voice to shut up. She heard her father speaking, but it was as if he was on another planet, his voice barely breaking through to her ears. The other voice was in control now.  
  
'Alexia, you must not let her live.'  
  
Alexia felt as if someone had punched her in the ribs, knocking the wind out of her. Desperate for an answer, she jumped from her chair, disturbing the prized crème brulee in the process. It clattered off of the table, the glass shattering into hundreds of pieces at Matilda's feet.  
  
"What would you have me do?!" she screamed aloud, causing everyone at the table to jump simultaneously. All of them, wide-eyed and deathly quiet, turned to look at her with the same confused expression, her father still holding the bowl of clam chowder as if frozen in time.  
  
"Alexia," Alexander spoke, his voice full of concern. "Are you feeling alright?"  
  
Her trembling had subsided, the voice slinking into the recesses of her mind and leaving a trail of mocking laughter in its wake. Even so, she still felt the lingering anger lighting her insides on fire. Giving her father a pointed look, she mumbled something about being excused due to a nauseous stomach. Fleeing the dining hall as if the devil himself was nipping at her heels, she didn't look back at the surprised faces she left at her back.  
  
________________________  
  
Alexander removed the dark leather belt from his waist and placed it neatly inside his closet. A dull throbbing pulsated behind his eyes, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose in a feeble attempt to make it disappear. He appreciated the single candle lit in his room, the semi-darkness soothing a bit of the pressure. Another late night and another skipped dinner. Shaking his head, Alexander began to undress, mulling the day's events over in his mind. After Alexia's bizarre outburst, the remainder of the family had finished lunch in total silence, only the sounds of forks scraping across the china heard. Alfred had looked distraught, while Matilda's face had held a serene expression. Unable to taste the food, Alexander had excused himself after the first course and locked himself in his study.  
  
Even his research had seemed to do little to take his mind off of his daughter. Her behavior was so abnormal for the quiet, shy young girl that she had always been, and he definitely disliked the change. It was as if he was losing command of everything, of her...and she was still so young. The thought had plagued him while he mindlessly shuffled through the mounds of papers cluttering his desk, irritating him endlessly. How was he to gain control of Umbrella if he could not control his own daughter? What had become of the respect that Alexia had once had for him? Did it really have to do with Matilda? He pondered the last question intensely, folding his fingers together in thought. The woman was pleasurable company, but he did not want to sacrifice the future for his own gratifications.  
  
It seemed as if only minutes had passed when he'd looked up at the clock and noticed that it was midnight. Feeling beaten by the nagging thoughts and no closer to a solution, he'd locked his documents in a safe and ambled to his bedroom. He had been pleased to find that Harman had left him a warm glass of brandy on the bed table, and even now as he sipped it, he felt some of his cares disappear into the bottom of the glass. Taking a deep breath, he placed the glass back onto the smooth table and crawled into the soft bed, the mattress enveloping him and making his headache instantly disappear. Pulling the thick comforter to his chin, he closed his weary eyes and yawned, cradling his neck in the down pillows.  
  
He wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep when he heard it...something loud that seemed to echo in his ears. Brushing his face with the back of his hand, he fumbled to find the matches in his bed table drawer and hastily struck one, his eyes watering from the sudden spark of light. Touching the flaming match to the candle wick, he pulled back the covers and looked about his room, his thoughts still groggy from the rude awakening. Sliding his feet into plush house slippers, he stumbled to his closet and removed his midnight blue robe from its clothing rod, draping it haphazardly over his shoulders. Surely Alfred wasn't having another nightmare...the boy was sometimes more trouble than he was worth.  
  
Grumbling to himself, he barely overheard the heavy, hurried footsteps approaching his room. The sudden onslaught of noise in the deathly quiet house caused Alexander to stand upright, his ears perking at the sound. Without thinking, he bolted to the nightstand and drew out the pistol resting within, his fingers grasping the cool metal roughly.  
  
"Who's there?" he asked, suddenly afraid that he'd hear an answer.  
  
The footsteps stopped outside his door and were replaced with a rapid, piercing knock. Without waiting for an answer, Harman burst into the room carrying a large candle. His breathing was labored and sweat trickled from his forehead, and gasping, he began to speak in a shrill voice.  
  
"My lord, you must come quickly! I heard Lady Matilda scream, and I was too afraid to enter alone!" Harman cried, the candle quivering in his hand and threatening to extinguish itself in the pool of wax.  
  
Gripping his pistol, Alexander rushed past the startled butler, nearly pushing the older man over, and ran down the long hallway towards Matilda's room. Faltering in the darkness, Alexander turned right in the corridor, his heart hammering in his chest. Had Spencer's assassins somehow found their way to his residence? Were they looking for the children, but happened to stumble across a sleeping Matilda? His muscles tensed as he ran the length of the east wing of the mansion, and he could hear Harman trailing a distance behind him. He didn't wait for the butler to arrive, but quickly entered Matilda's room, the door creaking eerily on its hinges.  
  
The room was quiet, a soft glow filtering through the off-white curtains that hung limply across the ice-covered window. He could see the blurry outline of Matilda lying comfortably in her bed, her hair disheveled across the pillows. Alert to any intruder that might still be present in the room, Alexander peered into the shadows, the pistol thrust ahead of him as a priest would use a crucifix. Walking cautiously, he neared Matilda's bedside, gently calling her name so as not to frighten her. When nothing stirred, he let out a sigh of relief, thankful that she was safe and that her cry had most likely been a dream. Tenderly, he trailed a finger down her forehead and the side of her cheek, stopping when he felt something hot stick to his fingers. Frowning, he wiped his hands on the side of his robe, the bristly fabric collecting the liquid.  
  
"Matilda, why are you crying?" he asked soothingly.  
  
She didn't answer, but continued to lay still, resting deeply. He heard Harman at the door and could see the faint candlelight pressing into the dark room.  
  
"Harman, you had no reason to be alarmed," Alexander whispered towards the butler. "It appears that she was asleep and must have had a frightening dream. Look here, she's crying."  
  
Harman anxiously stepped into the room, the flame atop his candle bobbing angrily in the dark. Alexander walked quietly towards his butler, relief evident on his face. "I think that both of us are becoming a bit too jumpy, wouldn't you say old man? I know that..." Alexander paused, hearing a crunch and feeling a sudden pain shoot up from his foot. Dropping the gun in surprise and pain, he cried out, cursing beneath his breath. "Harman, bring that candle closer! I've stepped on something!"  
  
Harman rushed in, hurrying to his master. He knelt to the floor, bringing the light to Alexander's injured foot. "My lord, it appears that you have stepped in broken glass! Come into the den and let me tend to it!"  
  
Alexander winced, the shards of glass embedded firmly in his heel. He could almost feel them dragging painfully across bone as he hobbled about. "Why in hell would there be broken glass in here?!" he angrily whispered, resting his weight on the doorframe for support. He looked down, seeing dark drops of his blood inking the pastel carpet and the slightest glitter of light reflecting from the glass. "What is it?" he hissed to Harman.  
  
Harman continued to kneel, examining the pile, his eyebrow quirked. "It is a syringe, my lord."  
  
Alexander felt a sick feeling in his stomach, but he didn't think that it was because he was losing blood. "Give me your candle, Harman, and help me to Matilda," he commanded.  
  
The butler stood and offered his shoulder for Alexander, passing the light to his master. Alexander all but snatched it from Harman's grasp, and together they staggered to the bed. Shadows fled from the candle, crawling slowly up the frame of the bed and finally placing Matilda in a soft, amber glow. She lay there, her arms out to her side and her fingers outstretched as if in surrender. Her eyes were wide and flickering with the flame; her mouth was open as if screaming, thick rivulets of blood coursing down her chin and coating the bed sheets beneath her.  
  
The nausea in Alexander's stomach doubled him over, and he began to retch on the plush carpet, moaning painfully as he did so. Harman could only look on, his eyes glued to the horrific scene as he held the weight of his lord on his shoulders.  
  
Matilda lay there, dead for some time, her tongue cut from her mouth and placed neatly in her right palm.  
  
________________________  
  
The children slept peacefully in their beds, the smallest of smiles gracing their lips as they dreamt.  
  
________________________  
  
I had to do it. I could not allow the family to crumble.  
  
If nothing else, I did it for her.  
  
Father, forgive me.  
  
I know that you would have done the same if only you knew. I saw the looks that he refused to see.  
  
I cannot feel remorse now. I am destined for hell, regardless of my actions. He has told me so.  
  
Now I can only sleep. 


	7. Voices In Our Head

_Okay, this one has taken me awhile. Sorry, kiddies, but stuff is weird. _

_Big thanks to Shakahnna and HelloCaptain for getting my ol' creative juices flowing (am I allowed to say that?). Make sure to check out their stories sometime if you haven't already. Mucho good reads. _

_I'm done now._

* * *

December 27, 1998

I recall the day that Matilda was buried. Father attempted a somber, solemn affair, which in itself was ironic and almost laughable, as it appeared that he was the only bereaved family member. Of course, I feigned tears for his sake, but it was evident that I felt no pain or loss. Alfred, on the other hand, sobbed hysterically throughout the whole unnecessary ceremony, but Matilda's murder wasn't the cause of his emotional outburst. I am his twin, and I knew his mind. I continue to, even in his death.

He was always emotionally unstable, yet predictable. Perhaps he was a genius in his own right.

-Alexia Ashford

Harman's bony, withered hand trembled as he penned the last words of his journal entry, the writing little more than illegible scribbles across the thick, crème-coloured paper. Sweat trickled down his temples like large, salty tears, and the short, graying hair at the nape of his neck stood on end as tried to explain his reasoning behind...everything. It was a pointless ritual - this diary - but in a strange way, he felt sane when the unspeakable words were transcribed onto the all too forgiving paper spread before him. It was like confessing to a sympathetic priest, knowing that you were no longer the only one carrying the burden.

The vicious scratch marks across his pale skin continued to burn like hellfire, the thin lines of deep scarlet trailing across his forearms refusing to heal. It was a constant reminder of the prior week's events. The woman had put up quite a fight, even managing a high-pitched scream when he'd removed his hand from her mouth to inject her.

Screamed with no tongue. Screamed as she bled to death.

Harman shook his head wildly at the memory, pinching his bloodshot eyes shut and drumming his fingertips atop the cold, unyielding hardwood desk. With closed lids, the scene still played out in a cinematic way; the indescribable fear in her eyes as she silently begged for mercy, the dim light of the candle reflecting in her pupils, the warm, slimy tongue squeezed tightly in his fist.

The pen moved automatically, almost impatiently.

Father, forgive me.

Harman eased open tired eyes and stared down at the simple plea, and the three words regarded him sharply, blaming -no, condemning- him. It took all of his strength not to draw purging black ink through the words, omit them from the pure, forgiving paper. Frowning in disgust, he covered the line with one quaking hand and continued, fiercely scrawling an explanation.

I know that you would have done the same if only you knew. I saw the looks that he refused to see.

It seemed easier to place the blame on his fickle master; it was Lord Alexander's weakness that had driven the butler to such atrocious actions. Damn him. Damn them all for making him feel this way.

I cannot feel remorse now. I am destined for hell, regardless of my actions.

He has told me so.

Now I can only sleep.

Harman slammed the pen to the desk, causing it to snap like a twig and release its contents onto the fresh, crisp paper. Fingers coated in the redeeming black ink, he dragged thick smudges across his haggard-looking cheeks, his eyes bulging momentarily in their purple-rimmed sockets. The demonic growls that he heard in his room late at night would rarely let him sleep anymore, and what rest he did obtain was filled with vivid dreams of blood-soaked hands and screaming women.

It was driving him mad.

Or maybe he'd already lost his mind long ago...

Alexia placed delicate fingers atop the ivory keys, her ice-blue eyes peering curiously at the sheet music placed in front of her. She ignored Alfred, who'd taken a position next to her on the large, upholstered piano bench, and she slowly began to plunk out the chords. Alfred would giggle every time she made a mistake, and it was starting to annoy her.

"Go away," she muttered, elbowing him in the chest with more force than she meant to. She allowed a sadistic laugh when he toppled backwards and landed on the hardwood floor, his eyes tearing up from the shock and pain.

"I'm telling Father!" Alfred whined, sniffling as he scrambled to his feet.

"Do so," Alexia dared, throwing her nose into the air and closing her eyes. "I'll deny it."

Alfred went silent, his lip jutting forward in a pout, and his eyes still shining with unshed tears. "He always believes you," he mumbled, hurt evident in his voice.

Alexia squared her shoulders, inwardly pleased by her brother's admission, and turned back to the piano. "Perhaps," she said cryptically. "In any case, you were being an annoying little blister."

Alfred resisted the urge to pull Alexia's hair, his fingers twitching at his sides. She'd been very ill-tempered since Matilda's death, but the boy couldn't quite figure out what had caused the drastic change. She'd also begun to neglect her ant hill, and Alfred found that he was the one having to take care of the upkeep. He didn't mind the feeding part, of course; however, it wasn't his job to look after the creepy buggers.

But Alexia was his sister. She was him, but different. They were the same.

The argument ended abruptly when Harman entered, his beady eyes shifting from one twin to the other. "Master and Mistress Ashford. Your father wants you to join him. Sir Spencer has arrived."

Alexia and Alfred shared a look of annoyance, and a discontent sigh escaped Alexia's lips. The piano bench creaked as she stood elegantly, her head bowed, fine wisps of blond hair framing her face. "I don't understand why we must meet this old kook," Alexia breathed out. "Father's never had a positive thing to say about him."

Harman didn't answer but stepped aside, leaving the exit clear for the children. Alexia stomped out first, somewhat huffily, and Alfred followed after her, staring glumly at his feet. Harman watched as the children disappeared, and his heart quickened nervously. Spencer was here. Despite being nearly senile, the man was much more intelligent than he appeared. Perhaps Lord Edward was responsible for the creation of the mother virus, but even the butler had to grudgingly admit that Ozwell had a hand in Umbrella's greatness.

A bead of perspiration trickled down Harman's balding head, and he hurriedly wiped it away with the sleeve of his uniform. What if the children said something that caused Spencer to become suspicious? Or perhaps even Lord Alexander? Harman squeezed his eyes together and nibbled on his lip. It was a volatile situation, and one slip up could very well be the end of the glorious Ashford name.

Ozwell Spencer sat at Alexander's left, his large, meaty fingers folded above his chin. He would occasionally survey the large dining room, an arrogant smile on his thin lips as he viewed the blatant rip-off of his very own mansion; however, he allowed an uncomfortable silence to hang between Alexander and himself. He could see the apprehension etched on the young Ashford's face, and it gave him a feeling of glee that he had not experienced in quite some time. The boy was nervous, and although Spencer couldn't be sure what exactly was causing this, he sadistically enjoyed every minute of it.

Alexander noticeably jumped when Alexia sulked through the dining room door, Alfred sprinting at her heels. The female twin took her customary spot to the right of her father, her lips jutted out in a pout and her brilliant blue eyes hidden halfway behind her heavy lids. Alfred sat next to Alexia, landing somewhat awkwardly into the plush chair and squeaking it forward.

Spencer scrutinized the children, noting the heavy resemblance they'd inherited from their father: the same shockingly blond hair, ice-colored eyes. He gazed from one twin to the other as he reached into the breast pocket of his suit and withdrew a solid gold cigarette tin. Not once taking his eyes from their cherub-like faces, he flipped open the sparkling box and removed an expensive looking cigarette, bringing it to his lips and lighting it with a matching gold lighter. He exhaled the smoke, avoiding Alexander's gaze as he continued to study the children. The girl kept her eyes glued to the table top, while the boy's eyes flitted around the room apprehensively.

"Good day, children," Spencer cooed, smoke snaking past his lips as he spoke. "My name is Ozwell Spencer. I was a family friend of your grandfather's, God rest his soul."

Alexia peered up then, keeping her irises somewhat concealed behind her golden lashes. "You assisted our grandfather in the founding of Umbrella Incorporated," she spoke deeply. Her eyebrows rose just slightly, and silky strands of hair fell into her face, partially curtaining her eyes.

Spencer snorted under his breath. "'Assisted' isn't the most appropriate word," he scoffed, his sinister eyes narrowing. He placed the cigarette into his mouth and took a deliberate drag, breathing out a thick cloud before continuing. "It was an equal partnership, you see, and since your dear grandfather is no longer here to contribute to Umbrella, your father now owns one-fourth of the company."

Alexander cleared his throat irritably, his fists clenching in his lap. "Sir Spencer, allow me to introduce my children: my daughter, Alexia, and my son, Alfred."

Spencer's mouth turned upwards faintly, and he shot Alexander a condescending look from the corner of his eye. "Splendid. And which of you have the extraordinary intelligence?" The question was unnecessary, yet the man laughed inwardly at the self-conscious boy who suddenly lowered his eyes glumly.

"That would be my dear Alexia. At her current rate, I expect her to have fully completed the standard doctorate requirements by age ten," Alexander said proudly. "I do expect that she will have a worthy position as one of Umbrella's top researchers when the time comes."

Spencer nodded, finishing the cigarette and extinguishing the remainder in a gold-rimmed goblet. The smoldering tobacco made an angry hiss as it contacted the water, and Alexander gritted his teeth. "Absolutely. Umbrella is always in need of the brightest minds."

Alexia smiled serenely, raising her head to meet Spencer's eyes. "And what is it that Umbrella researches?" she asked, a note of accusation in her voice.

Spencer shook his head and waved her away. "Now, now. You still have much time before you qualify to become a researcher. Until then, you are not privy to Umbrella's confidential information. However, I have faith that your father will guide your studies in the right direction in order to best serve Umbrella. Am I right, Alexander?"

It took all of Alexander's strength to hold back the resentment he was feeling. "Of course, Sir Spencer. She will be fully prepared," he said curtly.

"Excellent," Spencer responded. His beady eyes moved from Alexia to Alfred, his straight, white teeth peeking through as he smiled. "And what of you, boy? What are your interests?"

Alfred gave Spencer a terrified look, and his high-pitched voice quivered as he responded. "I enjoy military...uhm..." he finished dumbly.

"Ahh, very good," Spencer finished. "Perhaps if you show promise, Umbrella could use you in our defense department."

Alfred looked up, his face a bright pink and an eager smile on his face. "Umbrella has a defense department?"

"Of course, dear boy! Umbrella specially trains its security and other needed personnel, but of course, I cannot speak much more on the subject," Spencer replied.

"Indeed," Alexander rushed out, speaking before Spencer could say another word. "If that is all, I'm famished."

As if on cue, Harman entered pushing a silver dining tray loaded with sparkling covered dishes that rattled boisterously in the large dining room. The butler gave Alexander a deliberate look and immediately placed the metal bowls and platters onto the dark mahogany tabletop, removing the lids with a subtle clang. Steam rose from the lemon-broiled fish, and Spencer made an over-the-top noise of appeasement.

"My, my, that smells wonderful," he said, his sharp teeth looking particularly carnivorous at the site of the feast. "May I?" He didn't wait for a response but took the tray in both hands and dished himself out a generous portion of the fish.

Alexia rolled her eyes and breathed out a sigh of annoyance. She was very grateful that the rest of dinner was a silent affair.

Alfred sat in his room, listening to the delicate tinkles of the music box in his bedroom. The harmonious melody always reassured him, and he was very glad that his father had made that addition to his room. It was an instance in his life where he felt as loved as Alexia, because the glistening box was just as stunning as hers. His father had told him that a friend of the family had given him the set as a gift for his future children, but Alfred thought that was somewhat peculiar.

He stood from his lavish mattress and approached the gold, glittering box as it chirped out a set of high tings. He hummed along with the song, laughing to himself as he remembered the way Alexia had butchered the song on the piano, and leisurely, he ran his tiny hands over the engraved gold, knowing that the song as about to reach its conclusion and feeling a flicker of sadness.

I don't want to hear it end.

Hurriedly, he slammed the lid closed on the box as it was reaching the final measure, a piercing thud drowning out the remaining few notes. He swiveled his head left and right, relieved that no one had seen him, and continued to study the detail of the music box. Eyes narrowed, he removed the ant-shaped object that served as the "key" for the expensive piece, the recognizable clicking of the lock loud in the still room. He wrinkled his nose faintly as he studied the azure insect, turning it over and over in his petite fingers and inspecting the deep sapphire placed inside it. He questioned why anyone would want a jeweled ant on top of such a exquisite object; it just didn't seem to fit. He's asked Alexia the same question as he'd studied her ruby-encrusted ant, but she'd only shrugged and said that she thought the ant made the music box even more beautiful.

Hesitantly, he placed the ant into the groove atop the gold plate, hearing it unfasten as he did so.

"I don't want to listen to the song again. I don't want to have to hear it end," she spoke beneath his breath.

Alexander scribbled wildly onto a scratch sheet of paper, his brain racking itself to no avail. He was becoming discouraged by his lack of progress with his T-Virus studies, and Spencer's previous visit had added to his already tetchy mood. The Ashford master could feel knots in the back of his neck, results from the stressful afternoon and evening that he'd been obligated to share with the senile, old coot.

'Secrets are better kept out in the open,' Veronica suddenly spoke.

Alexander nearly fell out of his chair at the smooth, velvety voice in his head. She had returned to him. His dear ancestor had forgiven him after all, and now she would speak to him once again. Overjoyed and on the verge of tears, his eyes searched upwards for a sign that Veronica was actually visiting him, that he wasn't inventing it.

"Dear Veronica, is that you?" he whispered hoarsely, his lips parting in a grateful smile.

'Of course. Did you doubt that I would return?' the voice accused.

"No, never!" Alexander lied. "I knew that you would come to me again! I have missed hearing your voice, my lady. I have missed it so much."

Veronica chuckled softly, the laugh carrying a menacing undertone. 'Yes. Secrets are better kept out in the open,' she reiterated. 'Spencer was becoming wary. You were right to invite him here to...quell his anxiety.'

Alexander felt proud, and he bowed his head. "Thank you, Veronica. I am glad that you approve."

The voice was silent for a moment, and Alexander felt an impulsive panic at the thought of her leaving him once again. He looked around worriedly, the smile gradually fading from his lips. "Veronica?" he asked nervously.

'I am here,' she said. 'You need to hide your research in a better location. Alexia is at the door.'

Alexander barely had time to process the information before a dainty knock on his door caused him to flinch. Mindlessly, he hurled stacks of papers into his safe and slammed it shut, metal clanging furiously against metal.

"Father?" Alexia inquired as she pressed open the door. "Can I speak with you?"

Alexander felt his heart begin to return to normal as his daughter entered his study, a grin plastered on his face. "What is it, Alexia?"

Alexia gazed at her father, curious as to why his face was so flushed. Shrugging it off, she approached him, her small arms locked behind her at the base of her spine. "Father, why do you dislike Sir Spencer?"

Alexander chuckled melodiously and patted his knee, inviting his daughter to take a seat. Alexia crawled up in his lap and casually threw an arm over her father's neck, studying him with keen eyes. Something about the coolness in her pale blue orbs caused Alexander to shudder momentarily, and he swiftly hid the troubled expression that he wore.

"Well, dear, Spencer has been a thorn in our family's side for as long as I can remember. Your grandfather, Lord Edward, had a great aversion for the man as well," Alexander stated unhurriedly, avoiding his child's eyes. "Spencer tried to take full credit for founding Umbrella, but your grandfather, being the noble man that he was, would have none of that. Thus, Spencer is a resentful old man determined to ruin our family. Do you understand?"

Alexia nodded thoughtfully and idly tugged at the hairs hovering above her father's collar. "Yes, I understand. So Sir Spencer had nothing to do with the considerable project that they undertook?"

Alexander felt his blood suddenly run cold. "What considerable project dear? The founding of Umbrella?"

Alexia shook her head, one corner of her mouth lifting slightly. "No, Father. There was something else, I think."

"Alexia, your imagination is getting the best of you once again, I assure you," Alexander spoke softly, plastering a gentle smile to his face. "There has never been a clear definition of who had rights to the company. That is all."

Alexia gave him an unsure glance but dropped the subject. "I see. Well, I should be off to bed. It's late." She didn't give her father time to react, jumping off of his lap and landing primly on her tiptoes. "Goodnight, Father."

"Goodnight, Alexia," Alexander said. "Pleasant dreams."

Alexia said nothing as she exited Alexander's study, her mind puzzled as to why Veronica continued to adamantly insist that she be suspicious of her father.

October 28, 1974

Veronica. Veronica. Veronica.

I will build a new place to house my work.

You are right. Children are too inquisitive.

I will have the jeweled pieces created this week.

Work will begin tomorrow.

All builders will die.

No one can know.

The children will have their revenge.

They are the Ashfords' last hope.

They are my last hope.

-Alexander Ashford


End file.
